[RCL]

Magic at Cafḗ California

As my small silver coin
clears the rim of his foam cup,
setting sun slides off
his grim game face.

"Now you’re my friend," he says,
leaning over my half-done script
where I sit alone in shadow, as usual,
mind blank and cup half-empty too.

He points to Ervin "Magic" Johnson's face,
centered on his tattered white t-shirt,
his own grin mimicking Magic's
as it beams down on me.

"I'm Ervin," he says, shifting feet,
tugging the bill of his Laker's cap,
faking a one-handed fade away.
"Where you from?"

Wherever you're from, he's been there.
I've overheard him jiving and joking
sometimes singing
for his daily bread many days.

Today, as usual, he's also someone else.
Still from where I started, I say: "Michigan."
"Know East Lansing, my friend? M-S-U?
Played me some hoops there!"

He croons to a passing cornbraided coed,
"Cheerleader! Where you been all my life?"
"Mobile," she murmurs, smile small
as she skips north to UCLA.

"When you’re old and homeless," he says,
his grin magnifying Magic's,
"no-o-o-body wants you."
He licks his lips, shifts feet.

The Cafe owner approaches, as usual,
passes Ervin a small bag of his famous donuts.
He pivots, spots another like himself,
a tall silent woman.

Matted dreadlocks her coronal,
she's our Califa, a ghostly African queen
who daily makes the rounds
of Westwood's whited domes, minarets,
and palm-lined streets.

Ervin drives south to her, singing
"There you, there you be!"
Pacing perfect, they meet
on the white line at mid-street.

Eyes reflecting the phasing sun,
head high, Califa smiles broadly,
her cupped pale palms accepting
his small tributes.

As Ervin winks at me,
flashing a high-five,
the fast-falling sun
slides into my cup.