There’s this man I’ve learned will park
In the spot I like to park.
Day in, day out, he drives down
The steep road in his grey truck,
Parks, checks his phone, kicks back, naps
For an hour or two, then starts
His truck with a roar and turns
Square in the road, like he dares
Who else might be on that road
To ram him smack in the side,
And then he guns straight back up,
Gone for the day. That’s his shtick.
That’s what he does. Days I’m there,
He parks as close as he can.
Days he’s first, I give him space.
We don’t speak. I tend to stroll
Off to my perch on the bluff
In the black rocks, oaks, and pines.
He stays in his truck. He does
Not catch my eye. He does not
Look up. I think we both know
One of us must be the fetch.
