Who am I? A memory, Santa Cruz 1977

Was that really me?

That young man who lived in the streets in Santa Cruz

Playing his harmonica for quarters and dimes

To trade for a tin of tuna and, if he was lucky

He, I mean I, would

Score a wedge of expired cheese

From the dumpster out back of Krogers,

And maybe a couple of bruised bananas.

I would eat in the little park across the brook

Facing the setting sun. Eating slowly

I would watch the town slow down

Like an intricate mechanical diorama winding down.

And, if you'd like, you can imagine a translucent moon rising

But that would be asking too much

Of this memory.

I don't remember the moon.

What I mostly remember is the lack of light at night

That concealed me when I was heading for one of my sleeping spots.

(But first I must wipe clean my oblong wooden bowl

With a handful of grass.)

I would alternate the places where I slept

So as not to adhere to a pattern

Which is how wild animals wind up

In the sights and traps of hunters.

This evening I head for a semi-wild hillside

Kept mostly clear for the view

Below a mansion on the fringe of town

Where I bed down on a flat patch

About the size of my body in fetal position.

There I will pass the night semi-awake

Or, if you prefer, half in dream,

Only falling into exhausted slumber

Right before dawn

When the innocent sun

Exposes my trespass.

So there was no lingering

For the world to warm up

Before I rise and stretch,

Or the irate owner will be down

Threatening me as he has done before:

It's you again!

If I see you again I will have you arrested

Don't come back!

At the time I didn't respect private property

Or anyone who owned property,

Which is why I was living in the streets in the first place.

The street was the only place where I wasn't angry.

I will head for the Cracked Egg

For my ritual home fries and black coffee,

And then I am back on the street

Playing for dimes and quarters

While somewhere deep inside

The question is marinating:

How can I play the game

Without forgetting who I am?

How am I going to do this

And stay real to myself?

Almost 50 years later

I am still asking myself that question,

And there have been times

When I have forgotten who I am.

-- -- -- -- -- --

Note: The street where I played my mouth harp for change in 1977 was destroyed by the Loma Prieta quake in 1989.