RICE-A-RONI

I stood (or walked)
near Ginsberg's,
Keruoac's corner,
and the night rang
with whiskey warble.
There was no
hat to gather alms,
nor sign to induce
profit pity.
There were no restricions;
he sang, songless,
the notes of his desire,
bellowed from lungs
that didn't consider
the strange suburbanites
strolling past him,
thinking, "They ought to
clean up these drunks."
No, he wanted to sing,
so he threw words
loudly at the sky
that was darkening, almost done,
and interrupted
by radiant gas dots.
The next morning
his head would ache
and he would need
to get more money
to sustain himself,
but he was briefly free,
singing at the ones
scared to open themselves
to anyone else who might be
walking through San Francisco
after ten on Saturday.
He was free for a song.