Sitting for a Painting & the Man in the Canteloupe Suit

The bus drove to Kitchener and I read
fifty pages of Padgett Powell's "A Woman
Named Drown". No one seemed to care
I was carrying a rifle. I've been reading short novels
by writers who are remaindered, or out of print.
What does that tell me. Bodes well.
She picked me up in a car that made me say,
Nice car.
Yes my husband bought it because of his phone.
And she told me about Bluetooth,
how there's a button on the steering wheel
to operate it.
She took three hundred digital photos of me
with my rifle. I tried to look like a rogue.
Her white cat slept in the open rifle case.
We listened to music she and her husband
had listened to on their way to Nova Scotia.
There was a sugar maple in the skylight.
She was on her way to Vegas to join her
husband, so we ate everything in the fridge.
On the way back to Toronto, on the Greyhound,
a man did business on his cell. He was wearing
a suit the colour of canteloupe skin, and
his shoes were like two smoked kippers.
He was obnoxious, we were all sitting in
his private moving office, but then I saw
the buddhist threads on his wrist. He had
that.