NOVEMBER'S END

Above my head a slate-blue sky

with a peach cauliflower of cloud

lying low on the horizon.

I stare at a glossy rectangle

showing a lone man silhouetted

against a flat, calm lake.

He is wearing a red T-shirt,

his arms hang limp at his side,

and shadow hides his face.

The photograph’s composition is poor,

and it lies not in an album but on an

expansive black driveway,

where it fluttered and landed

when the garbage was hauled to the curb.

Do I rescue him

even though I’ll never know his name?

As I lean over and peer at his likeness,

I cannot discern his expression

so I tug my dog’s leach, say the single word,

“Come,”

and continue toward my home.