They say old white men can get away with anything,

so why am I surprised, middle of the morning,

to see a saggy-jowled man in a red jacket

pissing behind a shiny black BMW right there

on Reading not too far from Tennessee, his hands

invisible but fidgeting with something—

you can tell by how his elbows

flap up above the trunk of the car.

I am walking fast, a little faster after that.

I see things I never would have back

when I would steal away a sunny afternoon, 

drive someplace pretty to walk. 

It doesn’t matter anymore what the sky is doing; 

me and my corona mask, we get out of the house.

Under the train trestle, where Tennessee turns into

Ross, still the same purple bra, new green weeds

pushing up through its straps, 

and splayed against the concrete wall,

a peacock feather Mardi Gras mask 

iridescent as that puddle of grease and pee.