Home Town
Julie Rogers
Gray sweats slipping down
his ass bending over
the trash can, throwing cans
over his shoulder landing
just where he aims
near the corner of Harrison St.
where I turn off
the Embarcadero at 1 am
driving home to Oakland
minding his businesson the job when there’s less
competition—it’s quiet—
the bridge lights dark fire
across the bay, the electric skyline
works almost as good
as a headlamp, no interruptions
no people, no cops now—
don’t care anyway—it’s doable
picking through for a few bucks,
dinner with luck and know how
he’s on it, middle of the night,
the Ferry Building past him
he’s made way to this corner.
This man is not a tourist.
This man lives wherever he sleeps
here in town. He’s an expert.
I used to have a pair of sweatpants
like his. I don’t bend much
for a living these days
but still they got worn down
sitting at my desk.
I just threw them out. That man
will never know this poem
is for him. The light changed.
I turned right to the freeway.
4-19-25
for him
