Hot days on the way

He was standing under the bus shelter.

humpty dumpty belly, red warriors cap,

skinny legs sticking out of cargo shorts

feet shod in pale beige workboots.

A tall can of beer sitting on the ground

and some song I didn't recognize

playing on his phone.

He says, you know women,

they forgive but they never forget,

you know what I'm saying?

You look old enough to know.

I'm stayin' at my sister's, she's cool

but my wife, I was married for ten years

but we was together longer than that.

and when it's time to go, it's time to go

but I still needed my stuff, you know my clothes,

my car, somebody else was driving it,

that ain't cool. When I was young

I probably would have done something stupid.

I was born and raised in the Mission,

I was a old school stick-up guy, I did my time

at San Quentin and I'm through with that.

I got a job backing up trucks at Parc 55,

my brother's a supervisor there

and I get twenty bucks an hour.

So I got my money and my credit score

is 640. That's good, right? that's really good.

So I've been staying at my sister's

for a couple of weeks and I got my drink.

She threw me a birthday party, I just turned fifty.

How'd I get so old? You been

around the block, so you know what I'm sayin.

Sometimes you just got to talk to somebody

somebody you don't know, because if you

talk to people who know you they bring up

old stuff and I'm through with all that.

Well here's your bus, I'm not taking the bus.

Five of us get on the bus and I find a seat,

get out out my book and start to read.

At the next bus stop, a young guy gets on

and starts to walk towards the back.

The bus driver tells him he needs to pay.

He slides a couple dollars into the machine.

Asks for a transfer.

Bus driver says, it's two fifty,

I'm not giving you a transfer until you

pay up fifty cents.

The guy says he put in tres.

Driver says no you put in dos.

Somebody in the back of the bus calls out

He put in three. Driver says no he didn't

and I'm not talking to you.

Back of the bus guy says

He put in three, why don't you do your job.

Drivers says, one more comment

and I'm going to put this bus out of service.

I don't care if it's six thirty in the morning.

Everybody shuts up.

The fifty cents remains missing in action.

So does the transfer.

We sail onto the bridge.

The traffic is light and fast

on this early sun-spiked Friday morning.

At the last stoplight before we reach

the Transbay Terminal, a full dress

Harley Superglide, with hard shell

saddlebags, a windshield and a

big sound system is playing

an old James Brown song: The Big Payback.

It's loud enough to be heard for blocks.

And it sounds so good. I can't sit still.

Like that other old J.B. song says,

 "I got ants in my pants and I need to dance."

I can't help but think that R&B has never been

anywhere near as good as J.B.

Up on Market, the morning maintenance woman

is disinfecting and hosing down the plaza

between Peet's and Wells Fargo. Just like

every morning before seven.

A truck on Fremont is unloading kegs

at Harringtons, the doorway sleepers

are waking up, a guy sitting on a sleeping bag

with all his stuff piled around him on the sidewalk

is buttering the pancakes of his MacDonalds

breakfast special.

Every street has bodies sprawled

under blankets or tarps, and

women garbed in shorts

and stylish sports gear

with tunes plugged in their ears

jog past the soggy sandwich buns

tossed in the alley and and the bums

now bathed by the sun's low rays

that find their way up the canyons

of the streets.

The tv weatherman said today

the heat is on it's way.

The Good Shepherd

Every town and city

has a heart.

Podunk diner

or courthouse square,

some center where

the energy congeals.

If you have a message

to proclaim, that's where

you need to go.

The crossroad in San Francisco

is Powell and Market

where cable cars turn around

and the BART riders

emerge from underground.

So on this fine June day,

I tucked my Bible and

my water bottle in my pack

and looked for the best spot

to stand.

A big line waiting to ride

the cable car was stretched up

Powell and the homeless

and the hustlers leaned against

the low wall around the pit

of the BART station entrance.

Across from the would be riders

looked like the best place to start,

captive audience, you know?

Over the years,

the most important thing I've found

is to choose the right piece of scripture,

something that connects with people

on the very day you speak.

-if you want them to hear you.

if you want to give a message

that cuts through the noise.

So I chose the story of the good shepherd

from the gospel of John, chapter 10.

"Good people, I have something I'd like

to share with you today. Yes you, all of you,

bless you on this fine summer day.

It's a story from the Bible which

I ask you to consider, especially today.

I think you'll see why.

There are a lot of shepherds in the Bible, right?

That's not too surprising. After all that's how

a lot the people of the time supported themselves

-with their flocks. For food and clothing.

Even to this day, there are many shepherds

in that land.

So when Jesus spoke to the Pharisees

they knew what he meant. When he said that

he was the good shepherd, the one who lays down

his life for the sheep. And when he warned them about

the hired hand who is a not a good shepherd,

who runs away when the wolves and thieves come

because the hired hand cares only

for the money he can make from the flock.

You see where I'm going with this, right?

We hear claims from high places,

the very highest places in our land

from our leader, our hired hand

that only he can protect us from the wolves.

But his speech is filled with lies

and he seeks to fill his pockets

with profits from us, his flock.

We're getting fleeced, you know what I mean?

But Jesus told the Pharisees that he was the gate

and that his sheep would know his voice

and follow him. How do you think they

would know his voice? Was it sweet

as a dove cooing in the olive tree?

Did he speak with the majesty of a king?

I think not. It was the completeness

of his love. And his promise to give up

his life for them. And he did.

But his love went beyond the flock

gathered there to hear him, he said that

there were other flocks not present

who he would gather

and bring with him through the gate.

Some of you probably recognize

that his promise was to live with him

in eternal life. But what of the others,

the flocks ungathered? As some of us are not?

I don't deceive myself, that I'm gonna

bring you into the fold today, but I still

have a gift for you, one that reaches

beyond the ashes or the grave

where we all eventually find

our respite from this world.

And that is simply this:

what persists after we have left?

Love. In the hearts of our families

and friends. And for some of us,

far out into the world.

like the stone tossed into the lake

sending ripples to the farthest shore. Love.

For all the flocks in all this world.

Like the good shepherd.

So I caution you, beware of the hired hand

the shepherd who seeks benefit solely for himself

and confines his concern for his flock only as long

as it profits him and burnishes his name.

and even then he will abandon them

to wolves and thieves.

God bless you, and enjoy this day.

The cable car rolled down Powell

and the people waiting drew out their tickets,

some resumed looking at their phones

and a few aimed their cameras at me,

to memorialize this San Francisco side walk curiosity.

The homeless sitting on the sidewalk

nudged their cups a little closer to the crowd

and one young woman put her hand

to her lips and blew me a kiss.

They climbed onto the cable car,

with excited eyes and smiles

and as it began it's journey over Nob Hill

to Fisherman's Wharf.

Some of them waved goodbye.

I opened my water bottle

and refreshed my throat

and waited for the next line to form.

Mirror mirror

Mommy's pink lucite framed mirror

lay on the floor.

my one eyed teddy bear

ignored.

The ceiling of the living

room was down there,

at the bottom of the pool.

If I could but touch it,

or clutch the hem of Alice's skirt

to pull me in, I'd follow Orpheus

through the dissolving entrance

to his underworld.

Instead.

Each morning the mirror

corroborates another step

on the journey to join the dead.

-

The girl walking down the street

looks up from her phone

to check her presentation

in the noon reflection

of every store front window,

tucks a lone hair behind an ear,

takes the opportunity

to assess her rear.

-

One night,

so long ago that now...

I walked through

the empty town of Dachau.

No cars, no people, no breeze

to stir the leaves in the heavy

moonless midnight air.

No money in my pocket

for a meal or or a bed,

I kept walking, scared.

Out past the last

few lights of town.

I stepped into a field

looking for a place to sleep

under a tree or beside a shed.

so dark that I couldn't see my face

in a puddle beside a barn,

but in it's black reflectance,

the stars and galaxies overhead

gleamed backwards,

a universe reversed,

and I was calmed.

Signs and whispers

What does the willow twig

so precisely laid across

the corner trash bin have to say?

What voices do

the green corn husks

and the corn silk,

the desiccated

chicken thigh bone,

lying on the sidewalk

picked over by the ants, have?

On the lamp post,

a washed out grayish xerox,

protected beneath a yard or two

of clear packing tape, displays

a smirking sun-glassed face

hiding behind bold block letters:

-DEVIL'S ADVOCATE-

The barking discord

on the screens upstairs

finds it's way down to the street.

What deal was the suit guy striding past

the construction pit yesterday,

speaking loudly into his phone

about some launches, cooking up?

Surely not about North Korea,

but in these days

of strange opportunities,

who knows?

There is a man in Cairo

who collects ephemera,

as trivial as toothbrushes and ticket stubs,

lighters and old shopping bags,

stores them in multiple apartments.

He says, everything is wonderful,

he finds meaning in every battered toy.

I spied a perfectly sliced

half moon this morning,

straight up overhead.

It looked like a dime slipping

into a slot in blue infinity

waiting for God's hand

to pull the lever

and spin the wheels,

to come up all jackpot cherries.

But the odds are more likely

to come up bell-seven-lemon.

Happy

She sits cross-legged

outside the nameless park each afternoon

scratching the crust of dirt on her bare thighs.

She hums and sighs,

avoids the eyes

of all the passersby

who study their phones

or the crossing signal

or check the sky,

deaf to her mewling

kittenish cries and mumbling

and walk on by.

She wears a blanket brown as sable,

brown as her Congo skin

draped close around her shoulders.

She has leaves in her hair

and secret smiles, some thought

or memory that seems to please her.

She never holds out a palm or cup

but I decided to give her a dollar

and she looked up and gave me

a smile, said in the sweetest

child voice, "happy".

The next day I did the same

and again she said, "happy".

Somedays she is elsewhere,

but now I make sure to have

some dollars in my pocket

for when she is, sitting quietly,

talking softly to her self,

touching the fallen leaves stuck in her hair,

lost in memory or revery as she suns there,

outside the nameless park. and all she ever says is,

"happy"

The plan

Zack had it all worked out.

Down to the last Euro.

A modest townhouse

on a sunny coast,

with bougainvillea

fountaining up the walls

and the scent of herbs

drifting through

the open windows

on balmy nights.

A Vespa with a basket

that he'd ride down to the beach

or to the market where he'd inspect

with a practiced eye,

the fresh caught mackerel

or aubergines,

nudge some loaves

still warm from the oven.

Perhaps a cappuccino

and a malasada lightly dusted

with golden grains of sugar

to sweeten the morning while

he spent an hour or two

perusing sports and politics

on the latest iteration

high resolution iPad.

Undoubtably he'd meet

some sweet raven haired

potter or masseuse.

And they would share

the same taste in cinema,

much laughter, and

a lively time in bed.

She would teach him

the local lingua

and ride behind him

on the Vespa and

it wouldn't matter

that her raven hair

streaming out behind them

in the ocean breeze was dyed.

He could see it all so clearly.

Things didn't work out that way.

He bought a condo in San Ysidro

with a rosemary bush outside

his window, but at least he

got the Vespa and met

a woman with black dyed hair.

Stella wasn't a potter, she sold

plates and glasses at Pottery Barn

and she knew all the best places

on his body to knead and rub.

It was a short trip to Tijuana

on the weekends for cappuccinos

and pasteles at a favorite cafe

where they could talk about

the latest movies, laugh or groan

about the news. If they were feeling frisky,

they could spend the afternoon

playing in a by the hour hotel bed.

On Sunday evening, as the sun

sank in the Pacific,

they climbed back on the scooter,

split the lanes at the border

and were back home

at Seaview condos before dark.