Haiku

My old enemy, Grown his thick bushy red beard In the five years since.

String of white tinsel, Strung between two thin branches Bowing to the breeze

Her naked bottom Visible in a white flash Gone to thunder now.

Electric fan blast Cave-cold in my left armpit DVD skipping.

I watch the traffic Or, did, until tall condos Replaced the yoga barn

How strange, to have come this far only to end as three lines on smooth stone

Spicy paperback Askew on dusty floorboards, Good parts long torn out

Limbless beauty, wins the pageant and tiara orange rose in her hair.

One old man, one chair Crackers thrown to five fleet crows, Down from the streetlamp.

Icy breeze floats, through the stilled fan in the window, down to brown whiskers

My mouth, tensed or slack, Shaping the breezes through me Larger or smaller

A tiny white feather From no nearby bird, blown in through a bus window

Street maestro, wheedling Can’t-lose dope deal, easy cash, A 5 for 40?

My bladder is full, My ears suffused with Lester, Teeth, clenched; soul, somewhere…

Rail track, opposite, As immobile on its side As I am on mine.

Cinnamon-swirl sky, cloud-grey spiraled inside blue, Lights on in the tower

Telephone pole tar, melting down at the base, sticky bright like the back of my neck.

Silhouette, stalking downwind from dozing sentry hands clutching cabbage.

Outrage at the world Swallowed, finally, thinking: Don’t waste a good walk.

“Some days are diamonds, some days are stones”–and I stole this from the busman.