When I think of all the superfluous things
I buy in the course of a year,
I-tunes credit, guitar strings
And Polish beer,
I find myself on Santa Monica pier
Where a skeletal bum with unwashed hair
In a Nike cap and windbreaker
Sits on a wheelchair
Hawking odd-sized pencils. No takers.
Tom cod, sculpin, jack mackerel and kelp bass
Glide indifferent, far below.
No less unconcerned go
The strollers, eyes firmly fixed
On anything else than where
He shyly rattles his cup.
Are you fed up, with this,
Reader? Looking for wisdom, a surprise twist?
But I’ve none to spare,
Alas.
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