the bank teller

my bank closes
it's drive in window
at seven and so there
is usually a small
rush to line up for
those of us who fear
online banking, atm machines,
and such. and so we
sit and wait in our
cars as the line crawls
through the empty lot
to where the green
lit sign says open.
and behind the glass
the man who works
this shift, who is nearly
always there, an older
man with a white beard,
wearing an orange turban,
smiles pleasantly. his
face is deeply lined,
and his eyes are a soft
brown, the color of dark
wet sand, perhaps
the color of blood. his
hands move paper and punches
keys with calm deliberation,
there is no rush in him,
none whatsover, and the cars
behind in line,
honk their horns, rev
their engines, it
seems like forever with
this teller, and they need
their money, now. their
day of work is over
and they need to eat
and drink, to pay their
bills and get on with their
lives. they loudly curse
him from their windows,
but the teller
is somewhere else. he
is alone in his little
world, safe behind
the pale green glass
enclosure. he dismisses
their anger with a nod,
a wave, and the lollipop
that he slides into the metal
drawer with their transactions,
all in good time.