His dirty blonde hair is long and he has part of it in a ponytail behind his head. There's a big, bushy beard on his face. He's wearing a blue Hawaii shit.
He really isn't much to look at. The hair isn't very well groomed. He's probably in his sixties. He walks with a stride that has seen many years.
It's his eyes that are captivating. Behind the slightly brutish appearance, he's got beautiful, intelligent, deep, sensitive eyes. He's quiet and walks with a slight slump.
Maybe he's a teacher. He looks like he could teach. The wisdom wrinkles on his face are clear to see and I wonder how much he's seen. How much happiness. How much love. How much pain. How much despair. He could be a university professor. He'd teach philosophy of course. He'd be the one that everyone loved. You know, the kind one. The smart one. The sensitive one.
He's all alone and I can just hear his voice as he orders a potato skin stack over the chatter of the carnival stalls around me. It's soft and smooth and suddenly I can picture him with a guitar, singing songs about suck lock and driving a pick-up truck.
The lady behind the stand hands him the deep-friend potato stack and he walks away with a crooked smile on his face. I can hear him chuckling a bit.
So, to the man with the old eyes, I hope you enjoyed your potatoes.