Sunday Morning in Santa Monica

(From Path of Fire, 2002)

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

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

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.