In Chesterfield and Spats

The father of the girl

I stare at now,

as we wait for our morning bus,

stands across the street,

tall and proper in his 

chesterfield and spats.

He is waiting for a bus

that goes in the opposite direction.

He wears a derby,

swings a silver cane,

smokes a green panatela.

Suddenly he pirouettes

and smiles at my daughter.

She takes the same bus

to school every morning.

That night at supper,

I ask her about him.

"Dad, he's super!"

At 12, she knows.

"Dad, he rides the same bus

as me every morning.

He checks my homework

and I ask him questions.

Dad, he knows all the answers."