He was Ahab in a leather jacket
Shit kicking boots and silver earring
His lofty stature; like an aging oak
This comely gent did not wish to dally
He waited to use the copy machine
But there was a line to stand behind
“Sir, there’s another copy machine to use,”
I said, in awe, as I stared up at him
He smiled an nodded acknowledgment
In a deep rumbled voice, he said, “Thank you.”
My face turned red for a man twice my age
He walked to the machine with a purpose
Assuredly, his copies were produced
I watched him leave without preamble.
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