There is a man
who still pumps gas
at the station on the state highway
because he is
and wears khaki pants and a white shirt,
goes to church
and mows a widow’s lawn.
He has no keyboard to talk to planet Earth.
He believes in
service and rectitude
and sending people on their way,
destinations a mystery
he has decided he can live with
since even the
stars at night
decline to explain in a language he can understand
why people move
about the way they do,
the why of their wanderings, or of heaven.