Post War

He shuffles down the aisle
cramped with chewing gum crack men
business money on their minds
ruffling newsprint in their hands

touching the pilled headrests
on either side of the carpeted balance beam
He glances row right
next row left
next right again
on forward to ensure we know the rules
design safety feigned

His white short-sleeved collared shirt
hangs
from His shoulders as a vail
from the permed hair of a thrice married bride

each morning
prior to any wake-up calls
and continental breakfast hordes
He wakes to sterile silence
the next city and its hotel and its
ironing board already displayed
at the base of the firm sleeper king

shirt hung
slacks splayed
shower taken
in time for a hot iron
no steam
He finishes brushing toothpasteless
warm water and comb only

His crown of hair
and buffs the faux patent leather
of His D-widths
like an addict trying to revive his first fix

iron hot
it finds the old wrinkle scars
repeated folds
and attempts in vain
to thin the paper dull white fabric
again
this moment
between the last of the night
and earliest of morning
just before birds and their song find each other

He and His wheeled bag
find the accessible ramp
past the automatic sliding doors
into the still morning air

He slings a spring jacket over the right shoulder
and past one ear
of two
where songbirds haven't a song now either

asheville