WHEELCHAIR MAN

Just under a month ago...

Down on Castro Street...

I saw a, one would assume,

homeless man, begging for change.

He was sitting in a wheelchair

in the cold San Francisco rain...

But something about him was different

than the other poor souls begging for

milk money.

His face was a road that I had walked

in the warm summer rain of my migrain

visioned youth.

He could have been Zor Prime;

He could have been Jesus.

He was attractive; at least I found him so.

He looked into my eyes & when I said I was sorry

he told me it was ok. He looked away, but I stood for

a moment & stared. He looked back up, maybe thinking

I was looking at him in pity or fear or loathing - but instead

found me standing there with a hard on in the shadow

of an honest desire.

The Wheelchair Man smiled at me then & I turned to catch up

with my friend... I looked back over my shoulder & he winked

at me & I smiled & then we both laughed.

I never saw him again, though I looked for him every day of

my visit to that magical city.

But I'll never forget him, or the way he made me smile - or the

way we both laughed & acknowledged our desire. And the

way that this man, who could not walk; forced to beg for cash

in the cold San Francisco rain - had lost so much, yet retained

more than some rich assholes I've crossed paths with.

I wish I could have seen him again, exchanged names with him,

& thanked him for a wonderful memory.

Wheelchair Man.