A middle aged man in an older navy suit,

poorly parted sparse hair,

tie loosely knotted off center,

faces west in dark glasses

at a bus stop on a busy avenue

holding the halter of a sturdy dog

as cars whoosh by


I drive past him, quickly notice

the way he rotates his head,

the way he wrinkles his forehead


As fast as thought, he becomes

a tiny speck in my rear view mirror

replaced by trees and bushes,

porches and lawns and flower beds,

by sunlight that covers the entire earth


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