Haight Ashbury Blues

So is tomorrow the day

I finally soak slowly into the ground

like a cold October sprinkle?

I don’t know, no one does.

You see it’s all serendipitous,

Your god is serendipitous and full of irony.

Evangelical nonsense tells me god lives

in Haight Ashbury sewing moccasins

for the Twelve Apostles seeking asylum

in a place that doesn’t want them,

three Cherokees, six Apaches, two Iroquois.

No one knows the Twelfth,

the numbers on his wrist are smeared.