Hobos and dirty water.

Riding through

Sacramento

toward the old part

of downtown

through the marina

just over the tracks

the homeless fish for

fuck knows what

kind of sewer-raised fish

in that water

my buddy is on his

beach cruiser and

I glance back

at him

while we pass along the water

old tents scattered

lives scattered

from meth

or methods against

law or society or

another person

or maybe the one who

is trying to make eye contact

with me is just an old fashioned

junkie dead to his dreams

and alive to his fear

I keep pedaling

and remember the good

things

the warm, salt water

of Puget Sound

the taste of good

wine and the sound

of warm waves

beneath the summer

of home

and above the

circles of whales

of seals surfacing

to bark

of crabs walking

along the sandbar

by the jetty

while my hands meet the water

from the dive

with the white

jelly fish safely

around the shore

of Alki, floating between

the city and the West Side

the water fronting

the buildings and

shores and islands

like

a

spectrum almost

mysterious to me

while we ride past the

marina and

into the beauty of

Old Town Sacramento

the city has a pulse

a vibrancy

a mix of every place

in California, when I

really stop to

think about it.

We sit and slam coffee

while I watch the

people

and think about

the shores

of summer

-burning alive after

the rain, the water

awake and stretching

for dusk

the waves rolling

across to meet

our feet

-warm, sun-soaked

and

waiting.