there’s an old man in white shoes

he walks in circles around a green planter

that holds a dying tree slumped to the side

on the third revolution he lights

a hand-rolled cigarette then

he walks in circles

pausing to stare at

the burning ember of his cigarette and the

dying leaves of the tree

then back to walking circles

when he has finished the cigarette he

field strips the butt and slides the remains

into his pocket

before he leaves he spits over the rail onto

the cars in the parking lot below

then he disappears into the building next

door,

he is an enigma—aren’t we all.

J. Masuda © 2008