The old man advances into view,
his spine twisted as a rumor.
Immune, in an armored chariot,
I watch his cumulus breath escape
the trenches of a dignified chest
and climb steadily atop the gelid air.
Slush-covered feet navigate a few steps
before he stops, reaches into a pocket
to retrieve one tattered black glove.
He slips it over his chaffed hand
like a gauntlet, takes up the reins
of his silver-wheeled shopping steed
and crookedly braces the world’s
elements, scanning the battlefield.