Dennis

I forgave him for his filthy car.

I’d never seen a clean photographer,

But he shook hands like a lumberjack

Cutting trees for picture frames before the memory went too far.

His three pair of eyeglasses

Rested, overworked, in his front pocket,

With two more over his eyes, sharpening

The world, capturing every second that passes.

We spoke of French and German.

Latin had died before our time.

But I used English to say,

“See you later man.”