Haiku Eighteen

Photo by Froeschle. Licensed CC0-Public Domain.

Photo by Froeschle.
Licensed CC0-Public Domain.


Sweat collecting on
the heel of my right hand
dampens the denim

I remind myself
not to expect friendship
there, that’s better.

Bellevue bus banner
“8 restaurants to choose from”
the pigeon pecks crumbs

The Fourth of July
means nothing to me this year
but thick, rolling booms.

One table, one man
eating a bean from a plate
outside, history

The fire station flag
stands at half-mast; butterflies
catch the breeze, higher

Sixteen chickadees
find, on the short sticker bush
rest for the twilight

Who watches the light
in the corner, as it clicks
on and off again?

Every day is death,
every day is life; as such,
what more can be said?

That siren downtown
for just an instant I heard
a man’s wide-mouthed cry.

Steel pipe overhead
sings is own song, this hottest
day of the summer.

I’ll fancy the mush
rotting in my black waste can,
the beach at high tide.

“You look pretty”
says the old man, greeting each
young lady gone by.

Waiting for the rain
settling for those cold breezes…
ahh, wet speckles.

Two drunks sing along
with Pigpen; he’s dead but
keeps up appearances.

The whole galaxy,
denied her by one hundred-
odd feet of tunnel.

His hand flap backwards
as he toothlessly chews pizza,
waiting for the bus.