Neither Predator nor Prey

The beige man

(“desert khaki,” the suit catalogue purred)

crumples into his beige car.

(“brushed almond,” the brochure sighed)

Settles for another day.

The dog, front paws clinging the sill, catches his eye
through the window as the car reverses -

(“Stay home,” they both think)

The road winds ahead into taillights and vanity plates.
No horizon, just steel and glass and grey suits
and coffee cups and last minute make-up,
and texts interrupted  -

(A lucky brake)

Behind, green trees and grass and
the dreams of last night and last year
recede from the rear view mirror
behind turns unconsciously made.
And made. And made.

He walks the sidewalk savannah
In pleated camouflage
Is a lion not tawny?

(But beige is not tawny.

No heads turn from the watering hole as he passes)

He fades into the office block:
Occupying space, without volume.
No air displaced -- a true Wonder Bread of physics.

(Did Archimedes control for pleated slacks?)

Neither predator nor prey, just
beige.