Under the Layers of Years

His stare keeps drifting down below the slim Beatles book on the table in front of him, and, eventually, it falls down to his lap, and his eyelids next, then his chin sinks to his chest. He is an old man, dressed in a bulk of thin layers to stay warm. Tattered shirts and sweaters piled on top of each other to fight the cold outside. Security walks by casually, gives him a light poke with his radio, hard enough to feel it but soft enough to say, "you are welcome here." He slowly stirs to life, returns to his book, and a few sentences later, he can't fight how tired he is, just like he can't really fight the cold outside no matter how many layers he wears. Age has caught him, just like it catches us all.