Forty years older than I,
Charles, in his tweed cap, stands starched
in gray chino and blue chambray.
For more than a year his broad tie
has let the same iridescent duck
fly against a vermillion sky.
Like a Vatican Guard
he oversees the parking lot
I cut through each morning
far corner to far corner
as I cleave two triangles of cars
parked in my wake.
I ask him one morning,
“Charles, do you mind
when I cut through your lot?”
“Not at all, sir,” says Charles
as he stares straight ahead
and starts the windmill
of his good arm to lead
the pearl Hummer
now pulling in.
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