the sun feels tender on my face on Saturday mornings the pushcart prophets dive deep bent at the waist looking for daily bread the blessed or lucky or trust funded or me we sit on the sidelines safety nets in special edition knapsacks and gluten free snacks me just a cup of coffee and a head full of lucid dreams that the year has nursed with me in thoughts so little spoken feeling not the slightest obligation to mill through success and failure and measurements of poise dignity and strength i sit there golden sun strokes my she dong and life is lived in various circumstances i for some reason only known to beloved Dharma bums have the privilege to sit inactively here today and tweedle my brains smiling at my chances to my left an angel cries out the gospel in a fevered torrent hexed and exhausted but delivering a message for free without the complications of mega centers and fine Italian suits