saturday

you see him
every saturday
when it's
not raining
washing his
red truck.
it takes all day.
he opens
the doors,
the trunk
and hood, rubbing
wax into
the metal,
vacuuming
the carpet.
wiping vinegar
against
the glass,
checking the tire
pressure
and the dip
stick for oil.
it gleams, it glows
and when he's
done, 
as the sun begins
to set, he folds
his arms,
steps back
and nods to
his wife
in the house,
waiting at
a window.