Gesture

On our way to Sunday breakfast,
my father and I see a man
wearing a hooded sweatshirt and workpants
stained with white paint and mud.

He is sluggish at 7 a.m., a slight
scowl on his face, right hand
cradling a large book
as if it were his child.

As we pass by—our car only months old
and freshly washed, my father’s suit
starched, handkerchief creased—the man
lifts his eyes and head, softly jutting his chin.

Watching the exchange—my father’s return
nod and raised wrist, fingers bent almost
into a fist—I ask Do you know him, Daddy?
wondering, Have you been him before?

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