Old Man with Cane

The man’s hands shake to a disobedient pulse as he totters through parting legs to the empty seat across from me. He props his cane on my foot and his knees touch mine, but I don't mind. Blinking slowly and steadily, each deliberate movement exaggerating time's lines around his eyes, he watches the passing buildings. And I watch him. The comb's fingers are still fresh in his hair. Lesser-tamed hair grows from his ears, and suddenly, I love him. I wonder if any woman has ever whispered these words into those ears: I love you. Did he turn to her, earnest, this old man alone on the train? Did she quiet his hands?