there’s a

guy that sits

at the intersection

 

of MacArthur

and Fairmont

in a black leather

 

jacket and

black leather

hat, never smiles

 

until one day

I’m holding

a Fleetwood Mac

 

record in

my hands

and he stands up

 

off his

crate and yells

“Fleetwood Mac is the shit!”

 

so am I,

because

the shame

 

of not wanting

to give it to him

keeps me

 

from being

able to

understand

 

the man

wasn’t

asking.

The noise never changes.

Not quite the stroke of midnight,

Not quite the hour of day;

 

It’s traffic, restless motion.

There’s time for that.

There’s time for money

And time for duty,

A time for obligations

And a time for necessity.

 

But, right now?

 

Now is the time to sit and listen,

To wait for the rain to start falling,

Instead of scrambling inside

When the sun’s out,

Instead of hoping for morning

When there’s a perfectly good night.