Rows of Belgian Trees

I see him in the neighbourhood,
Going about his business
With a face carved in granite.

He wears a herringbone coat,
Tweed trousers, and shoes
That nothing could move.

I know without needing to look—
His ample nostrils
Bristle with grey hairs.

His scowl is not meant to offend;
He should be walking home
Past rows of Belgian trees.

©2016 Michael Fraley

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