Hood up. Head down. Hands resting gently against his cranium.
Peeking under the sleeve of stereotypical is a hand tagged with tattoos, neck decorated and full.
You would be suspicious of him if you walked up on him in a darkened area of the streets.
Here encased in florescent light of cavernous morning you might feel otherwise.
For a brief moment he raised his face toward mine; the first of what I assume may become many face tattoos rested below innocence and loss consumed eyes.
As I moved my purse to the opposite side, wrapping the strap a bit tighter; his head slowly returns to unintended prayer position.
I watch his left hand return to supporting his head; fingers of his right hand curl childishly as thumb extends to rest securely between lips of adolescence.
The discomfort of stereotyping against the desire not be victimized stayed with me throughout the day.