Sundays

Sundays were his best days
changing out of thin pajamas
that hung loosely off his shoulders.
Plaid brown hat shadowing
his crinkled eyes.
Soft tennis shoes that hardly make a sound
on the early morning pavement.
Three years he's worn them
but they always look brand new.
He grips the handle of his bamboo cane-
it makes a hollow "tock-tock" sound
on the concrete-
at precisely seven.

Coins jingle in his left pocket
just enough for a ride on the city bus,
Sunday paper, black coffee in a paper cup,
and the liberty to stand looking
out to Santa Monica Pier, the changing colors-
blue, gold, orange on the water
for hours on end.

Before he came to live as a
stranger among strangers,
he was wealthy
with acres of land.
A painter and a poet
a humble hunter
a quiet soldier
Father of five daughters
and one out of two sons.
Husband to one wife.

Sundays were his best days.
Changing back into thin pajamas
after a coffee date with
the muses of his past.