OLD SPICE AND TRAFFIC
By Monica Hall
With the patience of an 8-year old,
I sit and wait.
At the top of the lumber company steps.
It is 5:00 p.m. as the owner locks up for the night.
“You out here by yourself?’ he says.
“Waiting for my dad” I answer.
I point towards Western Avenue.
The lumber company man nods and soon drives off.
Maybe his daughter waits for him too.
I am counting red colored cars to pass the time,
Though I have only been waiting five minutes.
I see a figure in the distance.
As he approaches, I am disappointed.
Too tall, I think to myself.
Traffic limps along Pacific Coast Highway.
Now there’s my dad!
A short man with a bowl legged gait.
He carries a large metal lunch box,
A comshaw he made at work.
I hug his waist as we meet.
He smells of Old Spice and Lucky Strikes.
I step upon his steel toed boots,
And we dawdle homeward.