Progymnasmata

Each morning
On my drive to work I pass
him.
He's holding a plastic grocery bag.
It's cold.
He's bundled in a hunter's cap, a thick wool jacket, and thick leather gloves.

Each morning
On my drive to work I pass
him.
He stops, looks at my eyes, and smiles
a big, genuine old-man smile.
And he waves right at me.

Each morning
On my drive to work I pass
him.
He waves like that to everyone:
Bright, honest, constant. He's
the sunrise that I want to be when I am old.

Each morning
On my drive to work I pass
him.
Do you know what's in the plastic bag?
Trash. He picks up litter and waves everyday.

And I drive past
him.