On a Bridge, Somewhere in February

Before the toll gate, anonymous
in the long line of cars,
a man rolls down his window
and stares out through the gray air
at a barge trailing scarves of dirty water.
The air is as rough as iron
and smells of unspilled rain,
and smells of clay, river weeds
and old corduroy from childhood.
Where is the place for such odors as these?
Why do they wait for such irrelevant moments,
as when the toll guard swings out,
one hand fixed on something there inside?
To take the quarter and signal this one
solitary and completely unnoticeable man
to roll up his name like a window,
and drive along a highway as water-colored
as rivers in February, while the heater
blows warmth upon his ankles,
and somewhere spring comes dragging
long dirty scarves downstream into light.