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is the same as Thoreau’s (10 feet), its length

a yard longer. He had a loft; I have

a skylight. I want to be a painter.

Sometimes, I hear the freeway, now and again

the train, and the campanile. Thoreau heard

the band playing military music; his neighbors

were going to war against Mexico. He made up his mind

not to pay taxes.

Trying broad-

margin meditation, I sit in

the sunny doorway of my casita, amidst the yucca

and loquats and purple rain birches. Some I

planted, some volunteered. Birds—

chickadees, finches, sparrows, pairs of doves,

a pair of towhees, and their enemy, the jay. Hawk

overhead. Barn swallows at twilight.

I know: Thoreau sat with notebook

and pencil in hand. Days full of writing.

Days full of wanting.

Let them go by without worrying

that they do. Stay where you are

inside such a pure hollow note.

—RUMI

Evening, at an Oxfam Relief benefit

for Hurricane Katrina refugees, I read aloud

what Gilgamesh of Uruk (Iraq!) heard about a flood.

The Euphrates flattened a city “… bringing calamity

down on those whom now the sea engulfs

and overwhelms, my children who are now the children

of fishes.” Earll auctioned away a 100th

anniversary Mardi Gras doubloon handed down

from his family. A bakery donated an immense cake

with candles, and people sang Happy Birthday to me.

6 days ahead of birthday: A small

white man sat abandoned at the stairs

to our garden. Summer sportcoat. It’s autumn.

He carried a heavy suitcase.

Two bigger suitcases, trunk-size,

sat on the sidewalk. “Here B

and B?” he asked, and handed me papers.

Lists of bed-and-breakfasts, the top one

with our cross-street but no address number.

A neighbor must be running a secret B & B.

“Widow B and B.” A widow used to

live next door, but her house burned

down, and we bought her vacant lot.

And there’s a Viet Nam widow down the street,

and a faculty-wife widow 2 doors up.

“I got reservation. My name is Fred.

I came to see about my Social Security.”

Where are you from? You can go to your local

Social Security office. “I came from

airport. I paid shuttle thirty-one

dollars.” But it doesn’t cost nearly that

to be driven here from OAK or

SFO. “Shuttle van brought

me here, to B and B.” Earll phoned some

home-inns in the Yellow Pages, and drove Fred to

a B & B, which cost $125

a night. “One hundred and

twenty-five dollars a week,” Fred

corrected. No, no, a day. He

looked ready to cry. “Get me

a taxi.” The innkeeper called motels, and found

Days Inn at $90 per night,

and a hotel at $60 per night.

Fred told us of his life: He had been educated

at San Jose State. He lived in a basement,

and studied engineering. He’d made $900

a month, then in San Francisco $1,200

a month. Housing was $30 a night.

“There’s no work for engineers in San Francisco

anymore.” Social Security will give

him $600 every month.

Earll also—$600 per month.

“In Iran, I live for a long time

on six hundred dollars.” We took

Fred to BART. Go to San Francisco.

At a big hotel, ask for a “youth hostel.”

Earll gave him a hug goodbye.

We picture the little lost man, from Iran,

getting his bags stuck in the turnstile,

leaving 1 or 2 behind as the train

doors shut. Should’ve warned him, he has to

compete with the Katrina refugees’ $2,000

housing allowance. Should’ve offered him water.

In Fred’s reality: Widows rent out rooms.

At B & B on the computer, hit

Print—voilà—room reserved,

room confirmed. Taxi drivers know

the place for you, and will take you to it.

Everywhere wander people who have not

the ability to handle this world.

Late the next day, we went to the City

for me to talk on the radio about veterans of war,

veterans of peace. In a waiting room, women

in scarves—Muslims—were serving food to one

another. Each one seemed to have come from

a different land and race, her headdress

and style and skin color unlike any sister’s.

Silks. Velvet. Poly jacquard. Coral,

red and black, henna, aqua. Peacock.

Crystals, rhinestones. Gold thread. Impossibly

diverse cultures, yet