Four corners

I stand here
waiting
across the street
from the courthouse
for my girlfriend,
the prosecutor.
I am bored.
Smoking a cigarette,
I watch the steady flow
of people coming and going.
It’s a cold night in Houston
yet so many
wear so little.
They pull their arms together,
hunch their shoulders,
and soldier on
with their children
in tow.
An older black man
is crossing the street
too slowly
for a huge black truck
and it is only the sound
of the truck's horn
that makes me notice
this man.
At least he is dressed
for the weather.
He wears a long brown
trenchcoat,
white tennis shoes,
black sweatpants
and a black T-shirt.
My eyes are drawn
to the white tennis shoes
as they slowly make their way
along the crosswalk,
past the huge black truck.
When he reaches the corner,
he turns toward the next
and begins his slow journey
again.
I stamp out my cigarette
and watch him reach the end
of another corner
and turn toward the next.
It is quickly apparent
that he is trapped
within these four corners.
I light another cigarette
and watch
as this old black man
moves from corner
to corner
so slowly.
I wonder if he is killing time
or if time
is killing him.
I have stood here
for an hour
watching his circular progress,
when my girlfriend appears.
She stands behind him
at the corner
closest to the courthouse.
When the light changes
and he doesn’t move
fast enough for her,
she jostles him
and waves to me.
He changes direction
and moves toward
a different corner.
My girlfriend,
the prosecutor,
hugs me
and launches into a description
of her day
as we move toward my jeep.
I look back at the four corners
and the old black man.
Somehow I think
his story
would be so much more
interesting
than hers.