The First Day

I sit down to read.
On some steps in some sun.
A tall man passes, sporting sporting attire.
Stops and asks: What are you reading?
A book a friend lent me.
By friend, I mean: You don't know me.
Who’s it by? He strikes a pose.
A racquet over his shoulder.
I hold the book up.
Let him read the cover himself.
By this I mean: Go away.
Is it good?
Yes.
Read me a line.
Now that’s a line.
No.
Just one.
A split-second staring match ensues.
He has sunglasses on and I don’t.
No fair.
I’m too tired, I say.
I mean: Of this.
He twirls his racquet at me.
I go back to reading.
It’s only the first day.
. . . . .