Like every morning, at any time, before the stairs leading to the platform of line number 8 ;
he is seated on a case, against the blue-green tiles,
a grey beard, a woollen hat, an anorak, fingers clenched around a paper cup, staring straight.
I move forward on the black scattered floor , with building-workers – the only ones to wear colour,
with people on their own.
I reach the other side of the platform immense, like everything here.
On one of the stairs’ steps, he is seated, half-huddled, grey beard, anorak, (no woollen hat).
I am stuck in the beam,
lost in mid mirror
or on one side too
when on the other end
the other employee for 8€10 the hour
will spend 60 minutes in public transport
to join the other poor end of the city
and come back tonight,
passing one of hims