He stands on the corner holding a sign;

the words are not important.

Pale eyes find me through his own reflection

in the drawbridge of my window

that I refuse to lower,

keeping a moat of air between us.

His gaze has grasped my face

the same way his hands are grasping

the thin shield of cardboard,

and I cannot turn away.

Somehow I know he does not expect the money

I have long ago chosen to withhold from him—

he seeks only acknowledgement,

a slight dip of my jutting chin,

and I give it to him, reluctantly,

and he smiles in gracious victory

as the light changes and my vehicle rolls forward

slow as a wooden wagon.