Haiku Eighteen

Sweat collecting on the heel of my right hand dampens the denim

I remind myself not to expect friendship there, that’s better.

Bellevue bus banner “8 restaurants to choose from” the pigeon pecks crumbs

The Fourth of July means nothing to me this year but thick, rolling booms.

One table, one man eating a bean from a plate outside, history

The fire station flag stands at half-mast; butterflies catch the breeze, higher

Sixteen chickadees find, on the short sticker bush rest for the twilight

Who watches the light in the corner, as it clicks on and off again?

Every day is death, every day is life; as such, what more can be said?

That siren downtown for just an instant I heard a man’s wide-mouthed cry.

Steel pipe overhead sings is own song, this hottest day of the summer.

I’ll fancy the mush rotting in my black waste can, the beach at high tide.

“You look pretty” says the old man, greeting each young lady gone by.

Waiting for the rain settling for those cold breezes… ahh, wet speckles.

Two drunks sing along with Pigpen; he’s dead but keeps up appearances.

The whole galaxy, denied her by one hundred- odd feet of tunnel.

His hand flap backwards as he toothlessly chews pizza, waiting for the bus.