The sun bore down on him
like a blanket of fire. He gasped
for air as he kicked the pedals forward.
His bony elbows jutted out from under
his tattered sleeves — his clothes could not
conceal his burnt skin. An old hat cast a
shade down his wrinkled face. His mouth
was open and his stare was blank. Behind him
was an old and grimy styro box. What is he selling?
The sun bore down on him, as well as the long
and wasted years, and he is not yet broken.