"all the things I've done," he said.

a gigantic mess
of white,
two of them,
and one of
the brightest blue
covered with sand
with no home,
no real one, and
many brothers
but no real ones,
and a mess of traffic
tickets shoved
into a glove compartment
which he does not have.
warrants,
outlaw, vagrant,
but no identity.
a drug binge, one long one,
one long run, first
a month, then a year,
then five and counting,
and a big brown beard
juxtaposed
with a big grey
beard and I have
a mix of pity and of sadness
and of embarassment
thinking somehow
of him and not of
myself until my wrist
is grabbed and it is
made clear: my chronic
error, fatal flaw--
"all the things
I've done," he said,
"haven't been so
hard at all."