Ode To San Francisco

Thoughts on San Francisco whilst drinking tea wearing two hoodies in the kitchen by the morning light paying bills:




In the morning the fog clings low to the city’s hillsides leaving their midriffs covered but their tops bare. In the muted morning light the painted Victorians linger stately in quiet cold revelry and the small box homes in geometric colors and timid pastels sit cozy pretending to be warm, like the woolly hatted boot wearing girls clutching coffee cups in cafes that refuse to close the doors because it’s warmer outside than in. There is the small promise of sun that lingers light in the base of your skull if you have lived here long enough and learned to trust the predictable fickle heart of this deep souled yet distracted by every shiny bauble of town. This town touches Bay and Ocean and hordes the secrets of each water’s story. Her price is steep and her tongue is sharp. She will not suffer fools, but she invites them in, every last one she lures towards her gold dusted bosom with the lusty scent of being born anew from her tender loins.

Watch out though. She will feed you just enough to keep you. The rest you must make yourself from the discarded garments of her other lovers. Long timers have a coat of many colors quirky tailored and filled with pockets and doubled lined to shield their skin and bones from her harsh summers.

Those coats, those hard won coats built of years and generations of lovers on ground so unstable it sinks and shakes and always leaves you wondering if she will swallow you or knock you down. There are always new lovers, you cannot have thin skin in this town. The wind is too fierce and the nights to too cold. And, you cannot be jealous of the new ones. Their young round faces will soon be gaunt like yours as she spurns them too for fresh ideas and brighter gold. This you know about her, but still you love her and long for her once again to turn her gaze upon you and the poems you have written her, the paintings you have made of her curves and songs thrashed out begging for her lips to call you once again.

Why stay? Somewhere in the heart of every hanger-oner is the faith that they know her heart more clearly than another and their light still shines upon her string, they know she needs at least their shadow and thin legs to adorn her so the others will keep coming. It is a codependent game, willingly played. For saying goodbye to a fickle lover is not easy, for they are skilled in the art of dangled hope, to which all but the most hardened hearts are  not immune.


~ by asmallfryup on June 13, 2016.

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