- Category: Juvenilia
- Written by Jim Dee
I don't know the guy, but he's always there
behind the window, ready for my ticket
to be validated, (but I don't dare
let him see me picking my teeth with it.)
I pull out of this garage and adjust
my tie in the mirror. Then I see
this filthy and uncombed man who must be
sixty or so, ruler of his dust-pile.
People look at him in his booth and jeer
while departing reflections in a rear
window of a truck glow in red neon:
backwards K, backwards R, A, backwards P.
It's my Tuesday lunchtime trip to the bank
where a lonely man works in the parkade.