Polished Piece.

Every morning just before the sun lit up the sky, the old man would come out of his apartment building, make his way over to the little diner across the street, grab the mornings paper and sit on the bench on the corner to watch the sun come up. He never had someone with him, but enjoyed talking to any stranger that passed, offering the time, or directions, or simply good conversation. He never talked about himself, though you could tell he had quite a story behind his faded blue eyes and deep laugh lines. His hands were scarred and rough, he favored his left leg when he walked and his back was sort of hunched; which suggested a life full of hard labor. He was sweet, and appreciated every day to it’s fullest, though his body seemed to have been failing him; nothing ever broke his bright smile.  He was always interested in what others had to say, and would sit and listen to anyone that had a tale to tell. Though many talked to him, no one knew his name and the very few that paid enough attention to recognize him, referred to him as “the old man on the bench,” which hardly seemed to do such a humble man justice.