Yellow suits.  He wore yellow suits. To work, to mourn.  He wore yellow suits and his teeth were yellow too.  But only if you could see them.  Those silly dancing teeth poking through his tiny lips.  He licked him, curling his lip, and I watched the wrinkles come and go like passing waves on his yellow face.

He plucked five dandelions from the garden I found him in from their plastic root that sat next to a yellow balloon. I was on a sidewalk first.  Then stepped in.  I saw his yellow suit.  His yellow suits. Yellow suits.

I stepped in through the black ribcage that held this garden away from Irving Park rd.  Well it wasn’t much of a park.  The stones had names on them.  And years on them too.  The trees were big and I fell in love with a single ant.  I dipped my finger into the maple of the tree and brought it to that man.  And his yellow suit. He sat on a stone with the word “Emma Jennings --- 1953-1989”

Well this rock was young.  And really didn’t look like much of a rock at all.  Mr. Yellow Suits wasn’t looking at that or the dandelions he was stepping on now.  He was staring into the green grass.  I walked up to his shoulder and smelt his ear who had three stray brown hairs and placed that juicy ant on his shoulder.

“Yellow suits” he said, pushing the cuff up on his left arm.  I smiled and placed my fingernail at the bottom of his prickly grey chin. I pushed his face up, “of all the yellow things to love”