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Jim Morrison
On mornings like this as I drive toward work at 6:21 am
4th Street stretches ahead
without end
as I stick my arm out my window and roll back
my sunroof as the sky begins to lighten
my long-dead father
waves to me from a barber chair as the red white and blue pole spins
ready to tell me never-before-told stories of riding boxcars in the depression
the man
in the donut shop window waving his arms with wild eyes delivering a speech
to the rest of the donut munchers knows the secret
to world peace
Jim Morrison
didn’t die but is a minor aging poet with long gray hair walking to a beat in his head
he wants me to get him a reading
at the Long Beach Poetry Festival
he sticks out his thumb and I wave at him but keep on rolling because I will always
have my chances to stop and give him a ride and listen to him
audition
Charlie Chaplin twirling his cane as he waits at a bus stop
a whiff
of albondigas soup from the red brick Honduras Kitchen
Buddhists
in orange robes leaving the monastery to walk down sidewalks and see
gas stations and old men walking dogs
in the sunrise
Charlie Parker
standing on a corner kicking the heroin and booze for good with a cup of black coffee
in his fist
and the next great jazz breakthrough
in his head
I could ride 4th Street forever
but I turn and head for the freeway
to roll into work
on a morning like this I am not just another factory worker
but the only machinist poet on earth
the one no High School
or university or job ad ever
predicted
and there is nothing on earth I would rather do than pick up a wrench
and wonder who
will step out of the shadows to stroll down 4th Street
tomorrow.
