Monday, July 19, 2010

For The Birds



He sits on the bench in front of the café,
and then inside the café talking to himself.

But on his feet are clean white sneakers,
on his wrist a watch with accurate time.
His hair long, unwashed.

He sits on the bench in front of the café,
and then inside the café talking to himself.

Outside he kneels on the crowded
San Francisco sidewalk
tearing up a fluffy pastry into little pieces.

He spends twenty minutes making a pastry pile.
A dog stops his owner to watch.

He cleans his always dirty hands on his jeans,
sits on the bench lighting up a joint,
letting the birds devour his pile. 

Wednesday, July 7, 2010