Herb Gold

Herb was golden
in his San Francisco chair
certainly grateful
for the few strands of grey hair
he found in his bathroom sink;
well, at least he could think
his way out of a wet paper bag,
and he didn't need a chest tag
to remember his own name
as he walked past the hippie lady with her two small poodles
to a late night diner that served tasty Chinese noodles;
he was excited to read Home Boy
written by an old Park Avenue friend
who used drugs like a friendly toy
until his untimely end
when, very drunk, he crashed his motorcycle!
Herb, on the other hand, rode his Huffy bicycle
which was much safer
sure and slow;
he often knew which way to go
divorced
and solo
into the streets of San Francisco
cruising the world.