Window

He came to the window beside me
rubbing his tough hands on a red rag.

“That’s a neat pattern of shadows
on the snow,” I said, feeling poetic:
“long parallel blue lines.”

He stood, thoughtful, wary, perhaps
of connecting to poetry; he had
his status as a mechanic to uphold.

He had just changed
the rear wheel bearing
on my aging perfect car.

“We had an amazing thing happen
right in that field a few weeks ago:
thousands of snowballs all sizes,
rolled by the wind as if children
had played all night without
leaving a single trace, not a footprint.
It was magical.”

He sighed, retreated to the side
of my aging perfect car.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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