Slender, neatly trimmed beard,
freshly ironed shirt,
Ph.D. eyes and deadpan face,
he moves continuously,
wordlessly,
with a shaggy wet mop
and metal bucket
on spinner wheels
over muddy linoleum squares
up and down aisles
at the supermarket in a ski town,
scrapes up boot-crushed berries,
wipes spills and spittle,
erases black marks with the toe
of his right sneaker
He’s the same man in a ball cap
I stand behind today
at the post office
where he buys money orders
to mail to Mexico
There is an elegance
to his signature on the form
and the deep story lines
at the corners of his eyes
that lift in a flourish
as he writes