Home Town

Gray sweats slipping down 

his ass bending over 

the trash can, throwing cans 

over his shoulder landing

just where he aims 

near the corner of Harrison St.

where I turn off 

the Embarcadero at 1 am

driving home to Oakland

minding his business

on the job when there’s less

competition—it’s quiet—

the bridge lights dark fire 

across the bay, the electric skyline

works almost as good

as a headlamp, no interruptions

no people, no cops now—

don’t care anyway—it’s doable

picking through for a few bucks,

dinner with luck and know how

he’s on it, middle of the night, 

the Ferry Building past him 

he’s made way to this corner.

This man is not a tourist.

This man lives wherever he sleeps 

here in town. He’s an expert. 

I used to have a pair of sweatpants

like his. I don’t bend much 

for a living these days 

but still they got worn down

sitting at my desk. 

I just threw them out. That man 

will never know this poem 

is for him. The light changed.

I turned right to the freeway.

4-20-25