In a Toyota Camry with George Washington

The powder from his wig catches
in the cloth ceiling
above the passenger seat.
I only notice at a stoplight.
“George,” I start,
in tandem with the turn indicator,
“When you guys wrote the constitution--”
He cuts me off
“Todd, I have a lot on my mind,
can you please…”
“Yeah, sorry.”

George stares out his open window
at icy buildings
and at a starving man
with holes in his skull cap and shoes;
warming his face in a steam shelf
rising from Cup Noodles.
“You hungry?” I ask.
He clicks his teeth.
They’re wooden,
so it’s like percussion
instead of annoyance.
“Yes. A little.”
“Well there’s a Wendy’s,
like,
four blocks up…”
“Wendy Hillsborough?!”
The reflection of his startled look fills the windshield.
“No,” I say, “A different Wendy.”
He turns back to his window,
the bulky buttons on his blazer
clinking,
“I care not to dine
with a stranger this evening, sir,” He says,
gripping the armrest built into the door.
And the sun paints a glare
on the puddles in the street
as it falls through the holes in the smog net
cooling the horizon.

We pass a group of students
in front of the middle school.
“Nice clothes, faggot!”
He turns to me
“What did that young man just say?”
“He likes you.”
“Oh. GOOD TIDINGS!” He yells back
with his head out the window.
And I flinch,
having just lied to one of the only honest politicians
in American history.
The cherry tree incident.

A bumper sticker of a shotgun
is half peeling off the rear window
of the truck in front of us.
Highway road signs flick on their spotlights,
and I tell George I’ve never seen that happen before.
He only scratches his knuckles
and stares.
“I’ll be honest with you Todd,”
George starts while he reclines
in his seat.
“It is hard to be so far from home.”
“I know what you mean.”
He covers his eyes
as the cab of the car fills
with red from the brake lights of
traffic.