The bus stops
on these roads,
plexi-glass shelters,
sit, collecting humans
and rain, wet wanderers
fleeing the sky.
He stares at his feet,
this moment's occupant,
huddled in his surplus camo-
jacket, safe and bearded.
This is my city
(there are many like it but this one is mine).
They plant baby palms
along these streets; they
unfurl and catch these winds,
soak up the rains, hide
the treatment centers
and meeting rooms,
gutter syringes and
cheap hotels.
It's lovely here in the spring.