Today is a day to sleep
as the wizened old hippies sleep
as the shopkeepers weary-eyed
hung over
roll up their metal gates in
the chilly morning air;
my damp, foggy blanket
wraps the bus.
I watch a man
bare-knuckled huddled
and feel a beam of sunny joy
and a sting of baseless guilt
not being him
Wild-haired the old man
ponytail aged
"Old hippies die hard" he says
I looked
be-parka'd for this cool and blust'ry day
his lens was frosted with
years of too much too little
and though his mind
has stretched itself
traveled far
"Blown the universe, man"
he's still lacking
a little piece of
back of the mind
hole
talking clothing feeding housing
instruction manual left
on a hazy Haight sunny summer day
on the wet grass
happy
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