Even when he has a job
he looks perpetually uncertain,
desperate and distant.
I see him now and again
in the afternoon. He sits
on a bus bench at the corner
of Cleveland Street and Olive
with the sun on his unemployment.
A family of birds nests above him
in the drug store sign. He says,
if he pays attention he can hear them sing.
Their song lives somewhere within
quick clips of music from passing cars,
the hum of engines, an occasional
tire squeal, and the click click click
of the traffic light.
He told me once
that he sits there
until the song
is all he can hear,
and in that moment
he smiles.
