Spiffing up his old brown shoes,
crouched down to child's level,
speak/singing a song from the Beatles
oblivious to anything but waxy polish and shine.
Staring at tiny teeth
under ebullient husks
wondering how to make corn thrive
in the muggy clime of New Jersey
Driving the old white Rambler
slowing down half a block from the lights
"No use racing to one's grave" he'd say
saving fuel, and brakes and tires.
Propped up like a manikin
so his lungs won't fill
terror in his eyes and longing,
for he feels each breath diminishing.
A box and a flag, and some cardboard looking flowers
He couldn't look comfortable, even with well shined shoes.
By H. G. Lowry
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