His boots wilting like leather flowers,
his knife, hand carved from red maple,
my Huck waits for high priced ice-cream,
the young man a thrift store staple.
A small sea-salt caramel cup
in hand, he leads through the Mission.
He smiles, as passersby become
admirers. Farm-hand fashion.
With pride, he cuts his apple in fourths.
Tough Huck, mouth full, asks for help
carrying his paper bags to Dolores Park.
He cuts his finger. Like a pup, he yelps.
In Massachusetts, my father
would set traps for bears before dark.
Cigarettes out, but struggling,
Huck drops his light when a dog barks.