Stan

Stan: the bouquets in the window

spell his name. He is turning

the corner out of view

as I press for the traffic to stop,

four black cars slinking

behind him. The hearse pulls up.

Stan, though he has an appointment, has time.

I signal discreetly, wouldn't you rather...

sure of what feels like a rule of thumb

until the driver uncurls his fist

and extends a finger politely

demanding you go first.