Man with a Shovel

The man with a shovel on his shoulder
wears a faded red-and-white plaid mackinaw
unfastened, a red stocking cap on the back
of his head. His hands are bare but his
overshoes neatly buckled. He strides past
the houses across from my window, slushes
through melting snow in the alley,
gently boots a sled off the sidewalk.
He doesn’t smoke or whistle or twist
the shovel handle but marches one-two,
one-two, brisk without hurrying.
He glances at the sun, swings his 
empty arm in time with his steps.
He walks with vigor, a man confident
who knows his way. He does not stop
a stranger to ask the time or for a match,
or where the street runs to. It would take
a smart guess to know if he is coming from
or going to work. He isn’t in view from
my study window long enough for me to make up
my mind. I doubt if it would make the slightest
difference to him if I knew or not as he
heads in the direction to where he wants to go.