Story Sunday (2 because i messed last weeks)

That's him
Hunched over the desk, hair in eyes
grown out since last haircut.
That's him, in the baggy t-shirt
with the hole in the bottom
cigarette to the fabric, Just to
see it burn.
That's him, eyes blue as the
sky, but no one knows except the
desk. His mind is his own,
doodling onto paper,
he ignores the problems.
Does he not care?
That's him,
hopes and
dreams uncertain just trying to
pass by the day.
He smells of hay and
smoke
the black jacket over his chair
for the walk home.
that's him by the window,
but he doesn't look out, doesn't see
the sky.


There-does that not tell a story?