Long Way Down — With His Hand

WITH HIS HAND

he brushed down the front

of his shirt,

smoothing out wrinkles, straightening himself out.

Pants stopped

just at the top of his

dress shoes,

dress shoes tied

in perfect bows,

leather shiny,

uncreased

like he ain’t been walking.

Brushed and brushed down his chest

to stomach, down his thighs,

then squatting,

dipped a finger in

his mouth and scrubbed

the toe of his shoe,

a smudge not there.