For some people, like me, this is my job

I'm at work right now, staring at a man
pressing his bifocals to the bridge of his nose.
He copies the same black and white page
of a wife over and over again
on paper that's too small for the image.
Every couple of minutes, he looks over the counter
and watches me write this poem.
He probably thinks I'm writing an important
business e-mail to a client at Churchill Downs.

The man is using a highlighter now,
drawing circles on one of the copies.
Yellow swirl marks around eyes
like a chirrosis raccoon. This could be
the way he sees his wife.

Now the man is pacing around the table,
eyeing stacks of paper and dog-earing
the edges. He asks if the music playing
from my iPod that's plugged into an
individual speaker is John Coltrane
and I say yes. He walks closer to the counter,
resting his weight on his elbows and
pats his hand in rhythm with
John Coltrane's saxaphone.

A fire truck drives by with its siren on.
I look outisde and cars start darting
into the grass. Passengers inside
bob up and down like a boat
that's in the ocean all by itself.
I hope the man thanks me
when he's done making his copies,
and asks another question about music.