I adjust the bicycle mirror
to see what I’ve left behind.
The dog walker tethered
to three curly-haired canines
whose breed names end with doodle.
The four-wheeler racing by
the old guy in a Blue Jays cap.
It rouses a cloud of crusher dust
he sweeps from his face.
With the same hand he expresses
his feelings for the driver.
My wife and me enjoying
mint tea on the porch caught up
in plans and then my father,
withered, rising painfully from bed.
My brother in the aisle
of a local hardware store
inspecting the strengths of rope.
I stop looking.