He walks up to me
on the sidewalk: a little guy,
egg-shaped head,
glasses: “they stole my
car,” he says.
“No shit.”
“Yeah. I had parked it in the
library parking lot.”
“How’d they do it?”
“I don’t know. Still have my key.”
He shows me the key.
“The cops gave me a ride home.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Well. good luck to you.”
I walk away, wondering if
I could have done more for the
guy: drove him around to look for the car?
A week later: same guy, same
sidewalk: “hey, they stole my car.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. I had parked it in the
supermarket parking lot.”
“You get a lot of cars stolen from you
don’t you?”
“The cops are out looking for it.”
“Oh. Well, maybe they will find it.”
“Well, good luck,” I say.
He calls to me as I walk away:
“Afghanistan has fallen!”
“Oh geeze,” I say.


Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and in print (including in Dissident Voice). He is the author of eight published full-length poetry collections -- most recently BLACK SUMMER, 2021, Spartan Press. He lives in Vermont (USA). Read other articles by Wayne F..