Corner

In passing

The moment slips,
its pull weakens,
A three-dimensional now
turns flat.
His torn red scarf isn't a vivid red,
The stench of his leather boots
Lying listless
drying in the sun
disappears,
Even the sun goes into hiding.
His hat, wet from sweat
and rain from the night before
reveals vague sunburnt patches
on a bald skull,
And his thinning beard
drifts away in the wind.
His bike,
lost inside stickers
breathes heavy,
weighed down by a rattling sack.
Perhaps it isn't there.
My imagination withers.
For the moment has passed.