The man on the sidewalk

across the street

seems to stare at me,

despite the fact

that his face is blank:

no eyes, or mouth,

or nose, or eyebrows,

or any other features,

like a JCPenney mannequin.

He stands still,

feet together, arms rigid

at his sides, perfect posture.

From my front porch,

leaning bored against

the picture window, I stare back.

 

A small flame ignites

on his mud-brown hair.

He doesn’t notice.

 

He turns to his right

and walks--stiff

like a wind-up toy--

down the sidewalk.

The fire grows,

flickering down his head

and onto the shoulders

of his ugly gray suit

as he winds around

the corner.

 

Later, out for a stroll,

I find a pile of ashes

not far from where

I last saw him. His brown

leather briefcase lies

on the ground, untouched.

I pick it up by the handle

and tote it home.