Rush Hour

Early morning, The Castro, 1986.

I live on a hill, across from

California Pacific Medical Center,

trees cover gray windowed walls.

A young man staggers on the street ahead,

taking his time crossing. I honk.

He turns, face and neck sunken with sores,

his bony fingers on my car door. 

Eyes glazed with worn out fury,

he wants to hurt me, infect me, connect –

another companion on his way to death.

It’s just another day.

The light changes, I follow the car ahead –

leaving him lost among the living.