I still see him every week-day plying the corner
Of Likelike Highway and School Street. I don’t know
His name, but I call him “Gus.” His eyes softly sell
A vacant sadness as they seek out commuters
Who want to get the morning newspaper.
It is his poorly shaven chin, where the hair
Is as long as it is on the top of his head that makes
Him look like a Gus to me and, though I’ve never
Known anyone with that name, if you see someone
That often, it’s like you know them. And he knows me.
When my children were younger, they saw him
Too, as they rode with me to their school. He saw
Them with me every week-day. We never bought
The paper, but I think they were comforted by the constance
Of his being there, a minor morning god named Gus.
He could testify to our routine: to the laughter in our car
That he could easily see; to the replacement of laughter
By headphones worn to bring the secrecy of teen-age music
Into their lives; and to coming to see more than just the tops
Of my daughters’ heads as they looked out into his world.
Nowadays he sees me, alone, on the same route to work.
He has no children of his own so how can he know
How I feel? Still, one day, I will roll down my window,
My ever shut window, and buy a paper from him
Just to let him know that I’m glad he’s been there.
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