Red.
he'd jangle his keys
or change in
his pocket
when he was coming
around the corner.
he wanted to see
us working,
no talking and sitting
on the curb
discussing girls
or the war.
if our time was coming.
he was squared
and short.
a painter or a farmer
most of his life.
white pants, white shirt.
brown boots.
he never smiled
or cursed.
but he seemed to like
us, keeping us on
through winter
until the snow
was too deep
to work.
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