Sunny afternoon.  June.
Haircut.  I had bought a book.
But my car?  Where did I park?
I trip on a curb, look around.
Why, ducking into a bar

and ordering a BLT, that
sudden joy?  The waiter calls
me buddy.  The bacon is thick
as a belt.  Through open doors
sun pours on my waiting Mazda.

Is it that the body is so heavy
and dumb or that we are all
so easy to befriend?  The cool
cave, beyond it, light?  How
the bacon salted my tongue?