Sense of Scenery



Here's to the man in the grey Acura who pulled up beside me at an intersection

His salt and peppered silver curls, greased to their tips

He pulled long and frantic on that cigarette

As though it were the baby-bottle of God

Full of warm milk and the promise of freedom from pain

His face was weather-worn, from what I assumed to be a thousand years of worry

Windows completely down in weather hovering near zero

He never noticed me watching him, as I sat beside him in the red light glow

When it hit green, he was gone at the imagined gunshot

Never to be seen again