I want to tell you something.
I think you’re wonderful.
You take the bus from the intersection of Telegraph and that boulevard that appears nameless as foliage covers the sign. Sometimes you don’t have the change for fare. The days when Fred is driving the route, thank God. He lets you on for free.
Don’t see you all the time, but when it’s occasion your face peers through Jamba Juice’s brightly-clad windows, the cracked crosswalks, in repose on the outskirts of Cal’s lawns. You read once in Shakespeare & Co. Books.
You’re alone. I don’t see your tangled old terrier anymore, that frightens me. Now you talk to others at the bus stations— you for comfort, they for politeness. Rarely from these insignificant commuters you peddle some change.
I tell you this because I won’t ever see you again. Getting on that bus that went into San Francisco.
My parting gift to you was a cup of Peet’s coffee on me.
I don’t know whatever daily wars you fight, but you’re one hell of a soldier.