The next morning:
rereading the last page
of the happy ending
Out of the fog
first the ridge of pines
and then the mountains
Dropping out…
my key ring
dwindling
*
homeless:
no keys
Over the park dwellers,
flying from a shopping cart-
the stars and stripes
Housesitting…
acquainting myself with the books
and the cats
Deepening the mist:
the steamy window
of the old cafe
The old neighborhood:
the gang all gone, but the names
still in the cement
All through the night,
after my mother’s passing
the sound of foghorns
Critiquing the cuisine
at the soup kitchen
two homeless men
So many days now
the absence of the old man
who sat in the sun