Haiku 28

The downtown beggar died last week; a reminder to cherish mint leaves.

Regular waves in successive spikes, a thin stream ending at the drain.

Car horn from below, “Shave and a haircut, six bits,” staccato, then out.

Light at my old work goes out, the very instant my night bus rolls past.

3:05 pm, crescent moon, halfway hidden, scudding eastward clouds.

Spring blossoms fallen, lone crow stabs at prickly fruit flies away uphill

But what of dust mites exhaling under my bed– have they enough space?

Sprinter snaps the tape but no crowd cheers victory; drained, still stadium.

Set down on the rocks, gutter runoff spills beachward to salty mother.

I remember how death is life, but it’s that “death” heavy in this night.

He pays his extra quarter and the bus whines, soft, baby out of breath.

Black rooster, red comb beak high–how he must adore the thick-limbed maple

Live cat on his back humped dead possum for a hat, making friends downtown

Cherry blossom storm pink blots in a circle dance, stalled green truck.

Unwritten haiku, I have stalked you through downtown… then the sun came out.