Chorus

We could all be old white men someday
Me, you, the hot dog vendor playing disco in sacramento heat
ABBA, father, holy spirit
white beards and all
crinkly vapor skin
milk on the precipice of custard
beat poetry the grass patch where ants munched on whitman
I am not a beat poet
beat is just the wind
and I am made of fire
on the sidewalk 
I inhaled two hot dogs 
as the wind pulled on the sleeves of my cardigan
I rejected it
I wanted to curse
tell it to stop breathing on me
tell it to fight the sun instead
so beat kept moving
past me
searching for another passerby to sing its chorus to