Fil-Tree

He slapped the pack of Camel's against his little hand. Light. Nonfilter. Never opened, never smoked. Leaning against the bus stop, he holds the Evening Post. The piece of notebook paper attached to the bus stop sign claims that each edition is available for just a nickle. The change cup lays empty by his feet. This doesn't bother him though. He sure wouldn't waste a nickel on words on paper, folded together. What'd he know though, a ten year old kid, who barely talked to anyone, eyes always hidden by those purple-tinted glasses. The clock hit the eight. Fil waited for the last stroke, in case any stragglers wanted to rush out and buy some bedtime reading. He saw noone, so he packed up his wares and headed back to the park.