Haiku 22

After I finish scribing him through my keyboard the gas man plods on.

Sun in the right spot to light up King Street Station sloped roof, shiny green.

In the middle lane, in the middle of the lane, one lone prone ladder.

Blind man folds dried laundry his long cane propped on a slant against the doorway.

For a split second I thought she was calling to say she loves me.

Feeling Lester’s ghost quite strongly this dead-of-night hearing Bud Powell

Everything happens in the time it takes that cloud to pass my window.

Fly at the window how steadfast its refusal to go on its way!

Slumped, and slapping his own head, in rhythm, he takes a cell call.

And today I find inching southward on the train so nearly sublime

Chandelier blazing through purple-tinted window, overcast Tuesday.

I grin a fool’s grin for each shooting-star–humor in the grey season.

My heart jumps tempo– “Would you like to repeat that?”– but no, they don’t fight.

Tasting hot rain satisifed by two fat drops on my tongue’s middle

Unnumbered taillights curved in the bus’ windshield frozen red raindrops.

Windstorm splits branches he rolls over on his side wedged in his alcove.