Old Spice and Traffic

OLD SPICE AND TRAFFIC
By Monica Hall

With the patience of an 8-year old,

I sit and wait.

Restlessly perched.

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.

 

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