unedited.

He is the candlestick three-fourths down
with wax cement-staining his feet
like too much ballast.
He calls himself mister Easter
and little girl, he told me,
someday you’ll have to remember
you don’t always
get what you want,
I was 14,
so I had only learned the flood’s face,
not his name, yet,
it’s what makes the young foolish
we cannot address the things we see
like we cannot tame the things we feel
he played the ukulele
like Lucifer in the face of redemption,
laughing,
four strings and a slab of cardboard
to his name,
San Francisco street hunger
who does not care if the people hear
when he hallelujahs to the wind,
when I sing,
there are mostly churches in my voice
instead of hymns
we gave him a sandwich -
me and Curran -
who I saw marry the love of his life
two weeks ago,
people like us don’t understand
thankfulness for safety,
and blindness
But mister Easter does
by right of spectatorship.
He ate,
while we two sat like wrapped miracles,
quiet and impatient
as though songs would simply
blossom out like the fog here.
California is cold in places,
I wouldn’t have told you
that makes it like my heart
but it does,
demons don’t knock on the doors
of the mature, always,
so he handed me the ukulele
said,
music will save you someday,
you know.
A year and six months ago
my parents bought me my guitar,
since then,
there is too much darkness
I would not like to own up to,
little girl,
you won’t always get what you want,
I don’t remember what he taught me to play
like I cannot remember
the size of his voice
but it was shaped like my hands
restringing an E for the first time,
gentle, and determined
when Curran and I walked away,
he told me I would forget
what he had taught me
and that I’d forget him too,
but when you are sad, he said,
always remember,
you won’t always get what you want;
that doesn’t mean,
that someone is keeping you from singing.
I never asked why
he called himself Easter,
these days I like to believe
he was angry and laughing
that angels had to play harps,
so instead he played the ukulele
like Lucifer in the face of redemption,
singing,
four strings and a slab of cardboard to his name,
the sign reads,
heaven is pretty
like me.