the bow legged hispanic man
—a poem by Justin Hyde

parks his big red truck
in front of my neighbor's house.

i've talked to him
but he's set in his ways,
my neighbor barb sighs
glass of riesling in hand.

he must hear something
because he's started alternating:

her house
my house
and the guy one down.

it's the only time
i see
or talk to him.

says he was a cop

parole officer for fifteen
before that.

i get two pensions,
he smiles broadly
swinging those bowed legs
like hinges.

he swivels down the road
holding a young grandson's hand

don corleone
in the garden scene.

it's just that big red truck

quiet in the background

like a neighborhood tree.

Justin Hyde is a poet and Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal. He is the former Poetry Editor of Thieves Jargon and the author of the chapbooks Down Where the Hummingbird Goes to Die (2008) and Another Casualty at the 34th St. Bus Stop (2009). His last collection of poems is An Elephant Hole (2014, Interior Noise Press). He lives in Iowa and works with criminals.