Sitting in a Ford Taurus by Hank Kalet

Sitting in a Ford Taurus
by Hank Kalet

I knew he slept in his car
from the clothes balled up
in the back seat, from
the blear in his eye,
and the way his black hair
snarled in an awkward
cowlick. Eating breakfast
with a plastic spoon
from a can of meat stew,
sitting in the front seat
of a banged-up Ford with
no front bumper and a
phone book beside him
on the seat, watching people
through dirty windshield
rush in and out of the bagel shop,
isolated and alone,
his eye catching mine
as the bells jangle
on the glass door behind me
as I leave with bagel in
brown bag and black coffee
in hand, and I wonder
what's running through his mind
watching the unbroken flow
of workers passing through
this door like electricity
through a circuit as he sits
eating cold stew in a car
in a strip-mall parking lot
on a day when rain is forecast
and political speeches
lead the paper rolled beneath my arm.