I’m in a rush to get to a lunch meetup
at this place called Gonzoburger.

Park my white car. Eye the green
app that lets me poke and pay

with this external brain in my
hand. Get out. Stroll through

the warm September light. Past a
phantasmagoric mural, all blues

and greens and purples, faces,
angels, devils, parties, flying

dogs. There’s a wheelchair
and a guy in it at the end of

the sidewalk. It’s an old chair,
not those fancy Millennium Falcon

chairs you see. An old guy, with
skin weathered like an ancient saddle.

A beard like Jerry Garcia. Long hair
streaked with grey, beneath a ball cap.

Plus, he has no legs. I pull out my
wallet, nab a $5 bill. He’s not begging.

Just sitting in the sun. I go up to him,
lean over. “Could you use some money?”

“Sure!” he says. Takes the bill, smiles.
He seems clear-headed, not like some

on the street. “Damaged goods,” my
dear friend Stephen said once.

But his stumps—damaged goods.
“What’s your name?” “Paul.”

“What are you doing?” I ask.
He grins. A couple teeth missing.

“Drinking,” he says. Smiles and tilts
one hand to take an imaginary drink.

I appreciate street folks
who tell it straight. “How are you?”

His answer startles me. “Suffering,”
he says. A grin, but less of one.

Later, I recall what the Dalai Lama
said of everyone: “Everyone wants

to be happy and avoid suffering.”
“How’d you lose your legs?”

They look cut off above the knees.
“This one,” he says, gesturing to one,

“was when I got run over by a bus.”
He gestures to the other. “This one…”

“… froze off from the cold last year.”
What do you say to that. I nod.

He’s all there. Or as much as I can tell
in this chance encounter on a sunny day.

I put out my hand, knuckles forward.
We fist bump. Paul smiles. I smile.

He is gone from the corner when
I return that way.