No. 210 - Pier 7, San Francisco

A mane of grey hair

    unwashed

        still

Olive skin

        leathery

Sleeping

    on a bench

        on a San Francisco pier

Green and grey striped sweater

    too small for his frame

Coit Tower stares upon him

    and me

        and the Chinese fisherman

A bell rings

    at half past eleven

Pigeons strut

    purple chests

        green necks

            orange feet

                pecking furiously

Water laps

    gulls squawk

        traffic hums

The air smells of salt

    and seaweed

        and cigarette smoke

The old man naps

    vulnerable

        still as a lamp post

Lost in a dream

    or fractals

        beneath exhausted eyelids