The Man and His Motorcycle

after finishing his burger and soda he returned to his motorcycle, opened up a rucksack and fished out an undershirt, took off his shirt and stood bare chested in the cool air before putting on his first layer of clothing— fished around in the bag for the next layer, then the next until the rucksack collapsed upon itself with a limp bungee card hanging over the side 

he drew cloths out of the bag, draped them over the bike’s handlebars and selected one cloth, folded it edge to edge

then he polished the bike, attending to the chrome with a special cloth while I ate my burger and watched without turning my head too far so i didn’t take on the mantle of eavesdropper of a man in his fifties with tonsured hair rooting around for pieces of his attire and cleaning cloths—then meticulously polishing his motorcycle

his facial expression remained fixed— an avatar performing a  series of tasks, an imitation of someone who had somewhere to go, his aloneness and loneliness seeped through the open car window