The man is in a large SUV
Parked at a red light
In the middle of town.
.
He sees me start to turn right
And inches up forward,
Slowly,
In his car,
Face looking at me and braced
In a coiled state of adversarial vigilance.
.
In his mid-forties and smooth-faced,
He smokes on an e-cigarette,
With non-descript plates,
Seven years too late for the
Explosion of the world.
.
He is not as much the owner of an identity
As
The victim of a condition
That must be treated.