Specter

Driving south on Western,
I passed Padre on his motorcycle.
He's been dead for over ten years,
yet there he was. Under the face-shield
of his white motor-cycle helmet
I could see the familiar expression,
the calm serious eyes behind
the favored wire-frame glasses,
the clean-cropped beard.
He was driving north, I was driving south.
Our faces mirrored each other in passing.