No single day of his was same
I know he wouldn’t risk it.
He spends his nights in window bays
Around San Francisco.
A foot and inch to rest his head.
For feet just seven inches.
His life has taken twist and bend,
Which would a lot leave speechless.
Sometimes he gets some chance to sleep,
But often robbed and bitten.
The window bays are never deep
Enough to keep the heat in.
It has to be an early start,
Before the shop would open.
A run to gentleman’s at Bart
To fill his flask with water.
All day along in search of food,
Short rest beneath an oak tree.
And nothing could affect his mood,
A maverick from Berkeley.