Mr. T. Wilder never wore a coat.
His lips hung like iron in the cold.
He took pride in his brute little mind
through which big thoughts passed
and big dreams. When he and Andrea
went antiquing something lit up within,
and he ordered a mochaccino at the
Nine Mile Club, a place he frequented
like some modern ghost. His plaid hands
played upon his cocktail napkin, and
he thought of Missy and the Bel Aire
Coupe and Oregon days, stared down
at his wedding ring. His wife’s features,
wrung with age, softened his demeanor
and brought him light. He got out his wallet
and keys, trembled a bit in the smoke-
stiff air. Without Andrea
his existence would have been plain.
But now a new business, a new dog,
an all-encompassing philosophy of love,
and he sat like a butler at formal occasions,
unperturbed by the planets’ rough moving.
• • •