Here he was the summer of '29, br driving a coal truck from upstate down route br 611 towards Philly. He bought br cosmos at a road side stand br with a few pennies and shifted through br six gears. Drifting in and out of sleep, the lines br of imagination swerved br as he thought of her waiting on the front br porch, snapping beans. Waiting for him. Just br him. He would go directly to her after br dumping the final load of coal. He would br walk up, in his dusty work clothes, br a green thermos under his left arm, his br right hand behind his back: br the calloused hand, the delicate cosmos, br a still life of their own. She'd place br the strainer of beans on her lap & lean left br to peek behind him, but he'd shift his weight br from one foot to another extending br the thrill of his prize. Music would play br and their shadows would fox trot, br lope or pace. The music br would be carried, not by air, br but touch. He would stand there br a life time, admiring her hands folded, br the knuckles red from scrubbing floors; br she'd reach out and touch his left hand. br No words; words were for the unfamiliar. br Gestures, turns, a bit of eye contact br spoke proof. He'd bring his hand br from behind his back and deliver the flowers br that suffered the same exhausting trip br in the dump truck arriving br where they finally belonged.