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you see him walking
down market street
toward the embarcadero
green bomber jacket
orange guts flashing
doc martins corduroy pants.
out grown bleached blond hair
scrawny arms tattood with birds
charcoal eyebrows drawn
with rage and indignation.
off the muni from the height
headed to a bus boy shift
at a shitty corporate restaurant  
a portable cd player blasts
ritual de lo habitual and maybe yield.
you see him shelping bins
nacho cheese smeared dishes
and half drunk cokes, dodging
food runners and the incessant
soundtrack drilling holes in his skull.
after midnight, shift over, he follows
the wait staff to that hole in the wall
indian place where they know the bartender
who waters them with free drinks
tiffany tells him he’s cute- too bad she’s
not into guys. the room is spinning
at four am. you don’t see him getting home
due to the messy fog of memory.
he was there. young. alive.
an innocent feeble punk. waking up
at noon, grabbing sustenance at the salad place
below his apartment. time on the porch
sun soaked skin getting ready for another shift.