John

John walked to the entrance of the park

every afternoon. He wore a rumpled suit

with shiny patches on the seat and a dented

old fedora which he removed with a grimace

as he sagged onto the long curved concrete bench.

Said he had been suffering from chronic

headaches ever since a traffic accident had 

wrecked his ancient truck. That was the end

of his business collecting and reselling

wooden shipping pallets. Now he lived

in a boarding house three blocks from the park.

John liked to talk about selling ice cream

at Ocean Beach back during the war.

Sometimes he drove a cab, shuttling sailors

on shore leave to the bars along the waterfront

or to what he called cat houses. He always 

chuckled when he said cat house. The war years

were the best ones in his life he said.

The hot days when half the city sought

cool relief out at Ocean Beach, splashing

in the waves, and he'd sell all the ice cream

he could carry. The funhouse shrieks and hollers

from the Big Dipper roller coaster at Playland.

He would forget his headaches for awhile

when he told his stories. About four o'clock

he'd slowly rise from the bench, his headache

back, put on his old fedora and make his

way back to the boarding house for meat loaf

and mashed potatoes, or beef stew. He said they

weren't very good, nothing like meals he used

to eat in diners, his favorite was pork chops.