He raised his hand above his head.
His hair was a surface of gray,
his hand a semaphore.

It is called Trent or Noel
for the most beautiful girl
turning woman on the continent.

I ask you to stay.
Here in my head I ask.
You don’t know I’m asking,

The cars are yellow and green and black.
Cement is gray. My car quit
three years ago. I junked it.

I’m trying to tell you something
important to me
and you walk out the door,

This right eye establishes
grounds for consistency.
He’s a burr I can’t get rid of.