The septuagenarian

The septuagenarian slowly boards the passenger minibus. He is wearing bright red pants, a navy blue shirt and an extravagant, oversized red bow that doubles as a tie.

He smiles at the passengers, standing at the end of the aisle, next to the driver, as the bus moves forward.

He raises his voice to address those present, but his tone is barely audible in the back seats of the small unit, so the driver turns off the player that at high volume was tormenting them, which produces an automatic attention to the old man, who among other things says he is a retired clown, lonely at the loss of his loved ones, a poet of inspiration and who is there to offer verses to each of those present, hoping to be rewarded by them.

From one of the seats close to where he is, a child with candor in his eyes gives him a coin and the old man, as if making a retrospective to his past surrounded by the little innocents, caresses his head and declaims a verse, leaving buoyant from the challenge imposed on the memory.

For minutes each one receives the rhythmic improvised verses that come from the soul of the old man, who in some cases entertains the profession of those who wear working clothes and in others the beauty of the ladies or the elegance of the gentlemen, without leaving aside the greatness of God or the stories invented for the little ones.

At the end he receives some applause and a few monetary contributions and thanking everyone, even those who gave him nothing, he takes advantage of a bus stop to get off to wait for a new one in which perhaps he will have better luck.

It is hard to wait for the end of the days wandering among strange faces, most of whom do not understand the jokes of fate, but would rather use their talent than beg a piece of bread or beg some businessman for a mediocre job.