One of those days . . .

Sunday Morning in Santa Monica

(From Path of Fire, 2002)

A bus stops,                                                             

doors open and close,
then roars on, trailing
a cloud of black smoke.
A young man leans his head
against the window pane.

Next to a shopping cart

stuffed with plastic bags, a woman
sits on the park bench
hunched over
her head almost touching her knees.

I feel the moist air float by my cheeks.

An old man with a

green lopping hat stops in front of
Callahan’s coffee shop.
He sucks on his cigar
and puffs smoke rings
delicately
toward the sky.

Years ago,
I buried my father’s ashes
in a cemetery near  Zurich.
Today, I bless
my beautiful lonely life.