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Every morning for thirty years,
a man stood on a corner in Berkeley
and waved and smiled at everyone
who drove by.
During a time of sad revelations,
I passed him once a week and cried
each time he blessed me with his wave;
what else was his wave,
but love?
Imagine the jump off the Golden Gate Bridge:
pain pushing you, falling with terror
into the open mouth
of the sea. But remarkably,
you live.
Asked what would have
stopped them from jumping,
survivors said, A smile from a stranger.
Consider this poem
my wave,
my smile,
my love.