I rush into the station lobby, eager to make it home .
Inside, I see a familiar face rummaging through the trashcan.

He appeared older than me by 6 or 8 years.
His face was worn, with eye bags sinking into his skin.

His figure curved deeper and deeper into the cylinder 
.
As I enter, the snacks in my bag shuffle about 
.
I reach for an unopened poptart.

The mans eyes shifted towards my open palm 
.
He exchanges his gratitude with body language.

 Several times I saw him again.

Each with a poptart in my hand.