The face in the window looked like a ghost robbing a bank.
It was a neighbor kid
With a white doorag
Stretched over his features.
He was asking for salt –
Not for the table, but for the sidewalk.
Somewhere in the sky there had been a pillow fight,
And someone’s pillow had exploded,
And now the fluffy feathers were falling
Filling the mouth and ears of the world.
I filled an ice cream bucket for him
And told him a little goes a long way,
And told him make it last.
He nodded and left.
I went back to whatever I was doing
I can’t remember what it was
But I didn’t do it for long
And the ghost was at the window again
Asking for more salt.
“Are you just throwing it around?”
I accused,
“Because you don’t need to use that much.”
His eyes stayed on mine
And he mimed little handfuls.
“That’s how I’m doing it,”
He apologized.
“Okay,”
I interrupted,
“But this is the last bucket.”
After awhile he brought it back,
Empty.
And what I didn’t remember at the time
What I didn’t remember until days later
Was that he was the oldest man
In his house.
He was trying to assemble himself into something
For which there were no instructions
No one to call
No one to ask
Except someone
Who measured charity.
