MORNING OF JULY 3

Morning as an open door
of a post office of red eyes
in a poem's acceptance
like a love letter
embracing the sounds
of an all night taxi
with the driver
reciting my Beat poem
traversing a dead end street
consoled by day dreams
in the pulse of the neon city
wishing to walk with butterflies
under the Japanese lanterns
by the Frog Pond
eating almonds
near a quiet peace garden
hearing the smooth notes
sounding out its alto sax jazz
of my once owned whistled tunes
sharing my spinach croissant
on the park bench
with a mourning dove
awaiting a good wash of rain.