[In the town I didn't know, yes, I'll wait]

In the town I didn't know, yes, I'll wait
by the car. I did. And read there. Wrote
nonsense in a notebook. Considered
the inscription on the bench, one

Karl Thielscher, 1917, athlete, leader, loyal
son, proud parent. A war death. Or maybe
his birth year. Cars rushed the street,
blue, green, a shiny red sun-struck some

painful half-second silver. Those
crossing on foot started, lost faith or grew
brave, the queue infinite, car after car,
the town not large, the only way

to get through it. Maddening. But to
empty like that, waiting, you drift
nowhere really, not care much: a life ago,
I had reasons. Like Karl, I kept track.