"The Shield", a poem by Charles Rammelkamp

At the stoplight,
a kid with a spray bottle and squeegee
trolls the traffic, offering
to clean windshields.
Entrepreneur or pest?

Waiting for the morning rush hour
light to change –
places to go, things to do –
drivers wave him off,
impatient to be on their way.

The boy weaves in and out, balletic,
through three lanes of stopped traffic,
cars stacked up like cattle at a chute.

I park beneath a red maple
in the driveway behind our house.
It’s spring, and the birds have returned;
half-dollar spots of avian poop
speckle my windshield –
white and green dabs on a Jackson Pollock canvas.
I don’t want this kid’s attention,
but what more likely customer
for the service he provides?

Glancing at my car out of the corner of his eyes,
disgust rinsing his features,
he dances right past
to the spotless Honda behind me,
his squeegee and water bottle
a bow and quiver of arrows
he won’t waste on such prey.