Friday Evening Faces

 

Tired eyes

Peer,  through tan, worn, thick, wrinkled skin,

Hazy in a cloud of smoke that seeps off the end of a cigarette,

on the other side of  dust covered glass,

of a rusted, weathered, beater car

into mine.

Only one second or two,

But I could feel her frustration

The gridlock of traffic

5:15 pm Friday

Was it that moment?

Or forty some years of gridlock?

​

A scowl

To let you know

That “I don’t fuckin care, man”

With a haircut and a t-shirt to match.

Though free on a skateboard,

He seemed confined to some life

He wasn’t quite bargaining for at 14 or so

And I thought: “how could you be so mad?”

When so young?

Was this just his shtick?

His way to get "puss?"

Or did something really piss him off?

Did he have a true struggle?

​

Car after car after car

Face after face after face

Each one with a different case

Most or all I’ll never know

How slow,              how       s l  o   w

Velocity drastically slower than their capacity speed

No worry of cops and speed limits indeed.

Gasoline burning

Fumes and exhaust,

Most people know where they’re going

Most people look like they’re lost

​

Eyes met eyes again,

Thinning hair, fresh wrinkles on the forehead

With a sunset starting to brew.

Such a pleasure to be in no hurry

With nothing planned for once

Just soaking in the 15 minutes of weekend

Better than Sunday night ticking away

And those eyes, I’ve seen them before,

But they always seem to have seen so much more,

Dark circles encircling the mystery of who I am now

And who I will be

In that rear view mirror

That Friday evening.