March 2, 2009

For David

I saw you tonight
20 years from now
on a northbound
San Francisco bus.

You were swaddled in
wool and Patagonia
with your right show
tucked behind your left knee.

Your hair was starting
to gray, but you'll
be pleased to know
you've still been working out.

You were alone on the bus
kept company only by
some hipster proletariat
whose parents often call
from Oklahoma.

And I wouldn't write this
but I needed you to know
that under your heavy layers
and rugged beard,
there was a sadness,

a hollow eyed stare
like models or catatonics
slip on to slip out.

And I wanted to tell you
that if you don't start filling
your eyes now, I doubt
they'll ever be full.