A Small Ass Cart and a Big Ass Beard

Now there’s a man who has it all,
I think to myself,
his little cart puttering along the roadside
his little cart with the propane tank in back,
long flowing white beard of spittle
waving in the wind.
This is how the saints would look,
the angel Gabriel in mismatched socks.
This man must know more than me,
I think as I drive by,
this man must be a savant.
A sage with a cool name like Dean
or Razor,
who smokes expensive cigars
and drinks imported whisky.
Forsaking women and work,
never awake before noon.
Refusing food and water and shelter;
not as an act of contrition
but for reasons that can’t
be known.             

His desires are not human
desires.

Perhaps there are no desires
to be had.

I watch him manoeuver down the highway
with his small ass cart
and his big ass beard.
Aloof, impervious, untouched.

A modern day Yeti.

Hiding behind a pair of dark black sunglasses
like other men hide in alleys
or in marriages
or on streetcars that smell
of curry.