In a dream from a bus he stood
Old in a pale suit
A suitcase in his hand
Speaking, unheard until we stopped
The door opened as he spoke
“It’s time to go home,” he repeated twice
His Banksy style odd as he shimmered
He stayed standing as we left
The words remained
With confused faces we peered
For the man now gone
Wondering at the meaning
Stoic Poetry
Through The Cracked Window (Revisited) 