rain

he was a lumberjack,

now he shelters

from the rain

in an oil-stained

backpacker tent

on the sidewalk

at the corner

of market street

and main.

he sleeps in peace,

with neither style

nor weapons.

the rain falls gently,

slicks the granite entry

of the federal reserve,

glistens on the kiosk

touting long legged

women wearing uggs.

the baristas

in the cafe next door

fill the travel mugs

of the riders

arriving on

the 7:54

the Wells Fargo ATM

this morning wished me

a happy birthday.