there's a man across the street,
walking real casually
past the coffee shops and consignment stores,
hands stuffed in the pockets
of his black track jacket,
and he's whistling.
i watch him from the other side,
this lackadaisical nomad,
all sunshine and songbirds.
he's whistling his persona
in this transient fiction,
past his rippling reflections
in the shop windows,
all the while believing them to be
shifting images in god's great eye--
just one more happy creation.