She sees me standing hands-free
in the early morning fog of waking up
not minding anybody’s business
not awake enough to mind my own.  

She’s a skinny rich girl and a good person.
She describes precious things she buys
at boutiques in little towns with odd names
in hidden folded corners of Kentucky.  

She takes a shine to me, says I need fixing.
She shows me ads for two different types
of glasses I could wear while playing tennis
that would make me look like John Lennon.
I think they’d just make me look goofy,
but it’s nice, the way she fusses over me.  

She says we’re on a mission. Walk behind me. I
follow, as she steers her souped-up golf cart
across the quadrangle, motoring toward
a man who looks like Milburn Pennybags.  

He sees her coming, flees because he thinks
she’s trying to run him down
but she only wants to ask him a question.
She’s unaware she comes across as pushy.  

Turns out we’re at a Naval Base,
the part that keeps the ice cream.
Even though we’re civilians,
they lift the freezer lid for us to look.
I see the Navy buys ice cream in bulk
shaped like Neapolitan mastodon ribs. 

I’m just standing hands-free under sun
that burns off morning fog.
I’m not minding someone’s business
and don’t see any business of my own.