My Honduran neighbor buys a Hummer and washes it every day.
Lovingly, he strokes it with the finest lint-free chamois,
applying layers of special chemicals to every gleaming surface.
He decides to cut down down the silver maple next to the driveway
to prevent pollen from coating it and to keep it safe from robin droppings.
He removes the tires weekly, to clean the brake pads and axles.
After double cafeteria shifts required by the payments
he sits in his garage beside the car and lets it idle,
listening to the music of the engine. He does not sit inside it.
Once a month he pulls out the jumper cables and charges the battery
so he can sit again, and admire its boxy silhouette and deep combustion.
He never drives it.
He comes to me as his boy self and asks my help to buy a suit.
Feeling pity, I pull out my laptop and google “suit” for the child.
The search returns rich hits. I select several that will fit his form.
He pulls out a fountain pen and begins to write on the screen.
I am surprised that he does not know how a computer works.
I am more surprised by the beauty of his handwriting.