I’m amazed.
He has silk and crimson roses,
clearly the floral trophies
of our block, but that’s not why

I am amazed: he’s eighty-two,
smokes Pall Malls, has a broken nose
and face reflecting every weather,
but that’s not why

I am amazed: but this,
the way he works each day
to keep his yard and roses shining,
how he throws his tools
at sunset on his lap,
and rolls his legless body up the ramp.