Ken

I don’t think Ken ever stops walking;

he holds his hands at his hips

ready to wave to anybody and 

everybody knows Ken.

He leans his torso back, letting his

wiry legs, hidden beneath light-wash khakis,

cycle perpetually, 

taking him in circles around the neighborhood.

I’ve noticed, he only wears pastels.

I imagine he picks out his outfits the night before, 

thumbing through light pinks and baby blues 

to choose butter yellow.

I wonder if it makes him happier.

I see Ken a lot.

I see him on my runs, 

he is proof of my loops under amber skies, 

his presence is inevitable.

I listen through my earbuds,

my steps matching the swing of the drums of

Yacht Rock that accompanies the evening egrets,

who revel post-preening, post-feeding,

resting upon golden-stained lakes.

Ken walks in silence.

I wonder what he thinks about all the time.

I think about all the time I’ve already lived.

My brother left for college yesterday,

my mother felt the longing yesterday -

an amalgam of selfish sorrow and pride.

So, we walked,

steps unsteady, I felt it too.

I stared into her sparkling eyes, 

footsteps, torn between times -

tears trailing us.

And there was Ken; 

no surprise

prancing along the street, smiling like a little kid. 

We stopped to say hello, how you doing,

beautiful outside, isn’t it?

and then before he left, he said

Thanks for stopping. I really enjoyed that.

I watched him turn the corner.

Ken hears the birds.