3.21.2010

Lemonade

Route 300 was a parking lot
last Saturday afternoon.
The traffic light was taunting me
turning every color but mine
when what I knew would happen
did: the old man standing in the shoulder
clapping his hands in the breeze said Hello.
"Sir, I like your tattoo," he lied unconvincingly through
my passenger window that I'd foolishly left open.
I responded with "Thanks" not knowing
which one he meant and doubting that he could
even distinguish between any of the work
on my left arm which was fixed to the steering wheel.
His green sweater was one size too small
for his bowling pin torso and the dark khaki pants
that strangled his calves
puffed out at the sides of his thighs
like a Fascist field marshal
of the last century's center.
Gaps were more common to his forced smile than teeth
and his pink balding head was crowned with
a cap that looked like the ones cab drivers
and newsboys yelling "Extra! Extra! Read all about it!"
used to wear in the movies.
Everything about him screamed "Escapee!"
though from where I couldn't determine.
It would've been fair to assume that the sign
he stood next to was how his presence
on the side of the road was justified--
a human attention-getter for a one-day sale
or the like-- but I didn't stick around for long enough
to find out. The traffic light finally turned my color
and my foot responded accordingly. I allegedly left him
in my rear-view, though maybe this is proof that I didn't.
Maybe this is proof that I never do entirely.
Haunted or not it's still safe to say
that a rematch is not in the works.

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