Desolation Angels

It occurs to me that I am America.

On that same old E train with the suits and the Louis Vuitton bags and me with holes in my shoes that let the puddles in and holes in my pocket that let my lighter out. Immersed in my Jack book and so far from the comings and goings and the ladies-and-gentlemen-step-aawl-the-way-in I nearly miss my stop and recover just in time.

It occurs to me that I have embraced being that bum, after all. I am not fighting to reach the top of that career ladder. Then again, I am not even aiming to make a valuable contribution to society. (That shames me.) Still, I do not much lean on it, either.

I just try to float by on that soft river where I can smell the sunshine. Tell me, suit, can you do that? Tell me, am I not lucky, after all?

Jack in the street with his rot gut wine and hobo cats, where did he keep the things that won't fit in a bag?

I panic about the years, about the life. But I needn't. I gave myself this break, did I not? Did I not say This is your time, make of it what you will with no regret and deal with the rest later?

I have enough money to pay rent and buy beans.
Was that not all I asked?
Was that not all I wanted?

Come on in. The water's fine. The sunshine smells like happiness.