on the way back

i rode three hours on hurricaned roads

wheels in the early morning hands of

a brown-armed man with well healed scars

getting married tomorrow

who called my name over and over

bought me breakfast with all the change

his tidy fingernails found

in his shallow pockets

after the toll

driving me penniless in rain

i wanted to turn aground in the storm

be the best man to this foreigner

who asks from me nothing but business and conversation

from whom i withhold everything but questions and money

with a six year old son

and dreams of selling shoes

out of a converted container

of visiting america

and a future other than smiling

at                                        men                                        like                                        me