the eight o'clock pick up

i used to pick jake
up down by the metro station in old town.

he liked the steps there.
he liked watching all the young girls in
their summer
dresses heading for work,
getting on the train.

sometimes he'd whistle, or say something
offensive.
but he meant no harm,
sitting there with his lunch bag,
and baby blue thermos,
a cigarette dangling from his
bearded mouth.

he'd be in his white painter pants
and paint splatter coat.

his hair slicked back from the shower
he just took at the shelter
before walking over in the cold.

howdy doody, he'd say, as he climbed
into the truck and then start in on
the goddman shelter, or his goddamn
doctors, or his goddamn brother.

those were the days he was in
a good mood.