The old boy from next door is out on the footpath. He's watching as the council truck & associated men move long the street collecting all the garden waste from our verges. As the truck and workers move, so does he. He's wearing a light-coloured shirt, a maroon vest and, as always, neatly pressed olive dress pants. Occasionally he gestures with an arm and one of the workers looks at him and nods. Maybe he's telling them they missed a bit and they're saying thanks. I hope so.
I hope there'll always be a place in the world for lonely, interfering old men.