Roger Pfingston

Down from us, he slipped
into the shade below the pines,
blending like a black cat,
sat and ate his lunch
of chocolate milk and strawberries,
laughing, he said later, at the sun
trying to get its hot grip on his shiny head.

When we joined him, he said just pull up
a piece of dirt but watch them needles.

With one of us always thumbing,
a car finally stopped. We looked back
but he waved no, said he hadn't
decided which direction yet.

open road