every morning i drive by ben & jerry’s
haight-ashbury, hippie history
he sleeps on sticky stairs
remnants of mint chocolate chip, the
sugary smell underneath sleeping bag
comforts his drunk, drugged out body
pressed against concrete like
ice cream against waffle cone, but
this isn’t dessert, i think
of the hundreds of tourists’ feet
smiling, licking
walking on his bed
Daniel W. Polk 