Richard Lehnert

In the suburbs on a bike path that in any other age would be a road roughed halfway through some dark wood’s listening heart two damp young men in suits sucked dry of light walk stiffly and uncertain round a bend in each left hand the black box of a book They see me then spread out to fill the way as sun blares down and dry May wind slaps cheap loose plastic cloth against their shins The thinner taller blond one greets me in an earnest tone these days not often heard and when I do not take his offered hand surprised he pulls it back by jerked degrees says