Retirement
By Gene Aronowitz
I finish lunch
in a tiny triangular park. Above me, a contrail
coils slightly to its right to kiss
a cumulus cloud.
Sitting on a bench, an old man, cane
across his legs,
a trace of
spittle on his chin,
looks at a house behind a
balding lawn. An old
woman in a baggy, worn-
out dress, patterned with pale roses, once,
perfect
for preening,
stands on
its porch. She pulls
a salvaged cigarette from
her pocket, notices
the stranger with the cane
who lowers
his eyes,
then glances back as she
takes one long, deep
drag, taps the ash off the porch, grinds the butt gently on the railing,
examines the
remains, returns it to her pocket.
I look
at her dress, his
cane,
then look up’
at the clouds that,
for the moment,
imply fair weather
and walk anxiously back,
to what could be
my last job.
