I was a bum in Pasadena, or homeless as they say. Today was hot, lackadaisical. Carried my stuff to the library, started for the porch, where I usually spend the night, then remembered it’s Wednesday-- a flock of ladies will come tonight and want to use the door. A few weeks ago, I was all set for sleep, and had to get up. No matter, it’s nice in the late afternoon, under the redwood tree. Flop down, tired. Think I’ll sit and smoke awhile, a pleasure in the shade. Hope the sprinklers don’t come on. Lying on my back, can’t escape the smell of freshly cut grass. Why is a smell so strong? Not noxious, but strong to pull up her. our Lawn, our house, kids grown. Guess she’s doing alright. Hope so. My little habit, you know. I guess everything matters. Can’t do it over, would turn out the same anyway. Oh I could lay blame, in terms of what I used to call normal. Look, here’s one of those ladies, just drove in. She thinks I’m ridiculous, a bum on the grass. Probably thinks I’ll get into her car if she leaves it unsecured. Look, she smiled. Probably sympathy. She’d be like all the others if we talked. A big gap between us. She smiled again. Maybe I’ll hit her up for cash. Nah. It feels good to lie here and smoke. It feels better than home and how it used to be.