Getting Old Is

Getting old:
It is indeed
the "passing of an era"
​after all, and the last munchkin

has died, and while I
​sit at a traffic light,
​stuck in neutral,
​I see an emaciated Santa
​standing on the corner where

Concourse crosses Olympic.
​Inhaling the smoke

he bummed earlier, he eyeballs
​the entrance to the soup kitchen

in a church
​across the street

as he sways to his own beat
​with the crossing signal.
​His balding head

is framed by a magnanimous
​handlebar moustache; his belongings,

bagged at his side,
​a part of him, gripped
​by tobacco mottled hands.