Midsummer- July fourth, in fact

Twenty-first century, but

he walked straight out of World War Two:

crew cut,

white t-shirt tucked into

respectable work pants, cinched with

a respectable black leather belt,

nice shoes,

the pretties smelling cigar

clenched between his

straight, white teeth.

He's maybe twenty-seven.

It was the cigar that caught my attention.

Where's the airfield, soldier?

How did you end up in a place like this?

He sits sidesaddle at the picnic table,

solitary,

head cocked towards the sound

of the music and his

too-sweet vanilla smoke

dogfighting their ways across the courtyard.

I already know the winner:

Miles will knock. you. out.