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