The Pedestrian

by Leah L. Cole

I have seen him every day for the past five weeks.
He walks down the hill in his olive drab jacket,
A satisfied smile on his face and a bounce to his neck
That makes him seem to consider and accept everything he sees.
"Satisfactory," he would say.
Each day he peeps in on me as I drive by.
On cloudy days I can't hide behind my aviator glasses
And we make eye contact.
He is perhaps thirty seven, though tan and weathered.
Today he was wearing cotton gloves
The color of institutional lemon pudding.
We both know that someday I will pull over and stop.
He'll get in my car, even thought I'm not going his way.
He will look about my car and appraise me
Note how squeezed down I am beneath my stockings
How close I am to suffocating beneath my sterile business-like polyester
He will see the damp rich soil hidden within me
And feel me slowly shriveling from the artificial lighting.
"Satisfactory," he will say.
That day, I won't drive up the hill to my cubicle.
In silence we'll drive out beyond the city limits.
The day will be tinged with a damp green.
After sunset I'll take him back to the corner where I picked him up.
Perhaps I'll kiss him goodbye, but we are not lovers.
And the next day, I'll find another route to work.

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