Berkeley: on the diagonal corner from the coffee counter, two men in their fifties smoking a joint and chatting over coffee in the weak sun, eleven on a Sunday morning, as if serenely confident that the steps of the Quaker meeting house where they sat was a diffrent country, where California laws held no dominion. Crossing the street downhill, passed in front of theformer travel agency and thought, as I often do, at a level that seems to be underneath the mind, the last place I saw him alive, which is strange in that as far as I know, he persists, and it's really just the last place I saw him, sitting on the sidewalk and talking with his grown son; have not heard that he is dead and have no reason to think so, beyond the usual.
Posted by jane at April 7, 2006 03:42 PM | TrackBack