I have winged with the flock
that nest
where the crop is good.

Wandered with the yogis
who deep sleep
in a world with thin flesh

Fought along the warriors
who ask
for a glass of sherbet
at the height of the battle

Moved with the eccentrics
who transcend
boundaries of races and colors
roam free on other lands
across the oceans.

On a premature metaphor
I float
sometimes a space age messiah
sometimes a washer man’s dog
I become.