Line 217 Through Bear Country

Rising up off the pavement,
climbing his way onto the bus;
recently hibernating in an alley.

Curling into the seat
in front of me;
mumbling into his fur (growl).

And me downwind
sniffing for bearings
and a proper response,

a scent on the air:
dirt, coffee,
smoke and salted crust,
booze, rusty dreams.

It is the smell of a man
gone wrong.

Gray plaster flecked
in tatters across his forearms;
work dried up.

But now my thoughts have invaded his head
and -cursing me, my kind, and the Cosmos-
he moves to the back of the bus.

"Damn tourists and poachers, hrrrmmm,
whyowncha watch it
and step lightly for a change."

My eyes settle down
on the rolling street
and the night so full
of threats and laughter.