Tired and alone

on Sunday morn.

I wander sad streets,

feeling empty

as the “Clothes Encounter Laundromat.

A fleeting image:

lying down on the sidewalk,

a homeless bum, calling 911.

When I was a young kid,

father always asked me to smile,

so I smile at a lone jogger

who doesn’t smile back.

Everybody must be in church.

Won’t anybody be my friend?

Once before, I remember

feeling lost and alone.

But, my ennui vanishes

with this memory:


I drift from shore

far from land,

motor conked out,

anchor couldn’t hold.

I tore up floorboards

and paddled like mad

against ferocious winds

that only happen along

Northumberland Strait.

Rescued by a lobster boat

that towed me to Halifax.

A giant gold Buddha smiled

and I smiled back as I dined

on oysters and black beans

and oversized twin lobsters.