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I address you, old grandfather,
You who drove past me, a day hence.
I gazed upon your crown of white,
Your grizzled countenance, grim determination
In the grip of your jaw, the tighter grip of your hands
Upon the steering wheel, as you ploughed the road
In that green gray Corolla, unwashed paintwork peeling,
Number plate announcing its vintage, a fifteen year old
Carrying a sixty year old-I'm guessing here, you could be older-
Still full of fire both it seems, your attempts to pass me
On the inside thwarted by circumstances beyond your control-
And the minivan 'hogging' that lane.
I was amazed, to say the least, to see such life in an old man.
I guess you wouldn't be sitting in the park too often,
Smelling roses is not your game, and certainly not
The gentle sipping of Earl Gray by the Koi pond.
Strolling will bore you, I can tell, seeing how you
Swerved from left to right, and back again
Looking for that spot, that gap which you
deemed existed between my car and the curb,
And that glare you gave me, when eventually you past,
As I edged into the inner lane for you,
Your eyes were full of youthful fire, and
That signal you flashed me, the one no one
Will misunderstand, anywhere in the world.
I think it's called 'the middle finger'.
I think it's beautiful.
I like it, has a very humorous way at looking at something that would piss someone off.