Hitchhiker Circa 1969

He shivers by the side of the road,
thumb stuck out from a gloveless hand,
windbreaker collar pulled up to his ears.
No hood, duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.
 
Mr. Stevens looks at his wife of fifty-six years,
her nod imperceptible to anyone but him.
He pulls the Chevy Impala to the shoulder.
As his wife rolls down the window,
he leans across the seat. Hop in, son.
I’m Mr. Stevens. This here’s my wife.
 
The hitchhiker nods, opens a rear door, positions
himself behind Mrs. Stevens. She turns, asks
his name. John Doe. She glances at her husband.
One hand on the wheel, he reaches for hers with the other.
 
They drive in silence, stop at Betty’s Diner,
pay for his meal, request another plate lunch
to go, hand it to him on the way out.
Mr. Stevens pulls a jacket from his suitcase
in the trunk, hands it to the hitchhiker,
offers bills from his wallet. Take care now.
 
The hitchhiker nods, watches them
get into the car. Knocks on the window.
Mrs. Stevens rolls it down.
I had other plans when you picked me up,
but you were too kind.
He smacks the top of the car once, grins
then turns to go, thumb again
slicing air.