This poem was inspired by actual events I witnessed on the drive to St. Louis.
The old man sits in the plastic lawn chair
parked by the side of the interstate.
The open RV door patiently awaits his return
but no one — including he —
knows when that will be.
For he lounges in that lawn chair
parked along the interstate
his nose buried in a book.
I envy him
so comfortable there
and wonder if the cops
will come and make him
from his respite
along the side of the interstate.