The bum

When the sun reaches down
to wipe the sleep from my eyes
smelling like young tree whispers
and honeybees

I miss my father
and wash my face in tasteless tears.

Standing up straight,
wearing a soft blue shirt,
he waves his arm to reveal the morning

as men play bossa nova across the street
inside the café with its
windows wide open.

The musical notes gather
like a flock of nuthatches
in the boughs of my heart

while I remember his warm words
falling on my face
like the day resting its hand on my shoulder.

A waiter
sets his not quite finished cigarette
on the edge of a wrought iron table
while spraying down the glistening
cobblestoned sidewalk.

And a wild canary,
flitting around in the branches of a lemon tree,
watches sparrows bathe in the
little clear pools below

while a lovely pedestrian
reaches down to check a troublesome heel
her loose white blouse, mouthwatering...

And while I allow my imagination its freedom,
a brand new black cab
stops at the light, obstructing my view
as another woman applies her lipstick
in the back seat.

I take a deep breath,
my stomach bored and grouchy
like an annoying puppy
pulling at the bed sheets

when the sound of a quarter
dropped into my plastic cup
raises my eyes
and my hopes

as the door to the bakery opens beside me
and my wife hands me a breakfast sandwich
and a cup of coffee

while the yellow and blue flowers
listen to me open my mouth to eat
happy as they samba in the breeze.

©3.8.17 ebn