A silver beard rustles behind the wheel
of an ’84 Dodge Caravan. His lips furl at the road
and tighten his already stout face.
The brim of his black hat—Borsalino or Padre—
brushes the oh-shit handle for a brusque moment
in a moment of short blindness. His eyes strain
shortly on the road. Hunched, he leans
to the windshield, where his hat is briefly acquainted with it.
His passengers, behind him, backing him,
hadn’t a care in his care, content in the confinement of chairs
behind the concealment of tinted windows. They, hunched,
I think, gaze into the backs of headrests. Sullen faces shadowed.
The driver rests back, his eyes back, his sight back, and
loosens his grip of the wheel. Nothing moved passed
his cheeks, grazed his chin. No shadow crossed.
He didn’t have curls, I think.
