Day of the Dead on Garfield Square

i was in the Castro District
on a slanted pacific sidewalk
near a collection of hard-edged
locals who traffic in tourist photos,
trying to keep a lid on my disappointment
and a hand on my wallet, which i had relocated
to one front pocket.  i imagined i was attracting the
notice of too many fine young men by striding
through the busy intersections with both hands on my hips;
but the weather was holding, full of sun and windy, so i relaxed.
it really was a gorgeous day and it wasn't like i was
really lost, so i continued to descend on San Francisco
with an appetite directed for Haight-Ashbury, where i expected
to find a smokey politics with no hint of ocean fog.
yet the uphill walking in the afternoon
was more than i expected and very steep;
i eventually began to shudder with hunger and fatigue.
my vision continued to be fine, it was the map i used
which was confusing:  soldiering on through the breeze,
i found my way often enough to eventually arrive at a
crowded block of streets where i saw Jesus.
He was on a scale considerably larger than life-size.
i knew He was Jesus because He carried a sign, so I had a new mentor.
i asked Him for something to eat and received a piece of bread.
within less than a year of apprenticeship, i had my own bakery.
now, living in the Mission, i attend the Day of the Dead and also
pretend i am Jesus, wearing His crucial sign, smiling with my eyes, and
passing out bread to everyone i meet on Garfield Square.