Testimony by Jack Granath


I admit to a prejudice,

a native suspicion of

duct tape on small cars,

and this one had lots of it.

Despite midwinter weather

the driver’s side window was

down and looked as if

it were always down.

An arm shot out, a fistful

of brown something fluttered

to the street, and I,

an outraged citizen,

rushed to bear witness,

stupid with fury.

The man had littered,

and he would pay.

A citizen unfortunately

on foot, I moved in

to document and knelt,

then stood again, snarling

traffic, a sudden scofflaw

myself, but a dazzled one,

musing among the horns

on the strange ways of

strangers and the delicate thing

I had found: a swirl

of dead leaves, diminishing there.

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