Linkwood Road

The old lady walking, wears gloves. It is a shady
93 and the dogs' tongues drip. The old gentleman under
the dazed tree wears a jacket and, yes, a vest, and shined
black shoes. It is enough to break out flags about.
Surely they must die, of sunstroke, one, and of suffocation, the other.
In the meantime, what a fury of purpose and coolness:
who would trust the surgeon-of-crisis, in shorts?
Unthinkable the corrida, without the suit of lights.
It is doubtful that the old lady has a fitting destination;
the old gentleman is reading the obituary of a younger friend. That
white glove can be seen in the private dark, lessening its confusion,
and the jacket is comprehensible to the threatening mirror, and to all matadors.