March 2012; Beaumont, Texas; Stranger

On the side of the street, in front of his house, between the sidewalk and his front door: items for resale.
He sat on a stool that sat on a box of wrenches and electrical cords. 

I'm better than Family Dollar, he said.

I was born less than a mile away from where I'd parked my car.
Half a breakfast sandwich waited on a paper towel atop my dash.
There was no curb. My tires ran a few inches into the grass; he didn't look up until I spoke.

I bought an antique children's bike from him. It cost me less than ten dollars.
The bike barely fit in my backseat. He did not ask if I had kids.

Blenders, a tape player, winter coats. These and more scattered about his lawn.
Empty wooden porch on the only house across the street.
Silence like the inside of a bird-feeder. Heat like the inside of a bird.

I asked if I could take his picture.

He didn't know why I would want to, warned me I would waste my film.
Yes, he said. Slightly more than curious; slightly less than excited.
I ran to my car for a camera which made him laugh.

He showed me a photograph of his mother. She stood by a mirror in which you could not see the photographer.
Her eyes were slightly out-of-focus, one eyelid lower than the next.

The photograph was framed in his house.
He kept the door open while he pulled it off the wall. He did not invite me in.
The t.v. was on without sound. I stood in the doorway and desperately wanted to look.

It was Sunday. A car drove by, slowed down to watch us watch them slow down.

My car's hazards clicked on and off, invisible in the daylight.
Time was red too. It disappeared with the elegance of a fermata.