As we waited, his wife watched
Sleeveless arms pump
Gas into a small pickup
And write a check
For a case of beer
“He ran home to shower”
She said, he had closed
The shop for the evening
And was on his way to relieve
Her from the cash register
From the shoulder
Of this highway town,
Came a canopied golf cart
“Being your own boss
Isn’t all it’s cracked up to be”
His enthusiasm was no match
For the washed out beige
Knitting of his sweater
His cologne poked a familiar
Place I never did find, I handed
Him the map
Asking directions to
A decent hotel
He pinched it between
Identical tines gleaming
From his plastic forearm
After returning the map, he shook
His sharp appendage
Near my stomach and throat and
In the direction of the motel
Where his family stays when they
Come to visit
His smile never diminished
Teeth like oversized calculator buttons
“How do you think he showers
With that thing?” asked my friend
I bet he can take it off at the elbow.
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