Neighborhood Watch

There is a man growing towards you

on Tennyson Ave. The man is riding

a bicycle too small for his age, his face

worn down like someone’s father. Perhaps

he is a father. Perhaps his children attend the school

across the street. Perhaps he sees you and you

see him. Perhaps there is a comma between this moment

and the next: when he dismounts. He looks around the BART

parking lot, x-rays a parked Mercedes, wiggles

the door open. He pretends you are not there

when his hands begin to octopus

in the glove compartment, beneath the seats. Perhaps

he does not care. Perhaps he is desperate like you

will never know. Perhaps this is regular around here.