wise men are a dime a dozen now days

park bench
brown bag
clothes from the seventies
skin the texture of pavement

his odor burns my nose
no where to wait but down wind
wish he was farther away

the end is near
his sign proclaims

he mumbles

uncomfortable I must leave

“wait” he cries

“i know all”

I listen

“we are the makers of our own destinies” he says

I laugh

“why did you create yours?” I ask

“i stole the apple from the tree of knowledge & ran with it
God could not punish me anymore than He has”

I walk away

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