I'm in my patrol car
and I gesture to let a big guy,
dusted with white paint,
make a left in front of me.
He's driving an old pickup
burdened by ladders.
There is a thick layer
of debris on the dashboard.
Cigarette packs, food wrappers,
maps, receipts, work orders.
He cuts a big, slow,
sloppy arc across my path,
turning the wheel with the heel
of one palm.
He's eating a hamburger
and has it in the other hand.
As he passes,
he salutes me with
a wave of the burger.
Failing to do so would be
ill-mannered.
Dale Wisely grew up in Arkansas and lives in Alabama, where he edits
Right Hand Pointing, White Knuckle Press, and One Sentence Poems.
