For W.F.
A friend, down at the paddle tennis courts,
Sleeps in an ancient, rusty, skittish van.
He’s rail-thin, coughs too much, yet comports
Himself with an authentic proud elan.
For food, he mostly dumpster dives, although
Familiar with church hall bologna spreads.
His worn clothes are clean; his fierce plaint night-cold.
Though homeless, he’s remarkably well-read.
The other day, he told me platinum’s
Price jumped over sixty bucks in one day.
“Why the devil would you care?” I ask. Dumb
Question! “I’ve got a few ‘coins’ stashed away.”
This with twinkling smile. He’s got fifteen grand
In cds, owns an acre and a half
Of high desert land. An ATM grants
Access to incidental funds. Riffraff,
Clearly, does not describe him well—and yet,
He eats and drinks discarded musty trash,
And shivers, despite copious assets.
He greets passing, chic women with panache:
“Hola muchacha!” Who are the heirs he’s
Grimly saving for (our Bill’s mystery)?
Why does he endure the bleak misery
He bears, embrace such frugal husbandry?
Undoubtedly, he’s shrewd (and, apropos,
The richest sane poor man I’ll ever know).
(2/1/08)