March 8/23: the unfamiliar

Earlier, with tank full of expectant joy

he sets off,

his old black Morris Minor

tried and true.

Then, bearings seize and bearings lost,

he exits, clutching, then setting down

his precious gift.

And he sits on the curb

of the unfamiliar

street corner

old and gray.

Brilliant sun drizzles down through

shimmering leaves.

(And, predictably with time)

a trickle of vanilla ice cream follows;

flowing beside,

slow but relentless,

toward the gutter.

Elbows on knees.

hands over eyes.

How did it ever reach this point?

And where is it still to go?