One sees the trees by the side walk,
But does anyone here know there names?
We walk by them and through there shade.
touch their bark and eat their fruit.
Only the children know there names.

The sun strikes the clouds
giving chase
to a distant dull gray

(San Francisco Visited – incomplete draft)
I went into the neon light
shopping for the images
painted on the cemented pages
of dead writers and lost poets
.
I sat in Joe’s drinking cans
then stared at a dying Bay
counting black treadless tires
to dream of a lost America

discovered old poems drafts by my father, or “my old Man”. He recently passed away.
The drafts were written around 1970, when my Dad was in military service.