Half Moon Bay

Foggy Sunday San Francisco near the Marina
And I feel claustrophobic trapped between that moisture
And the hills and the buildings which grow taller toward
The heart. In City Lights I asked if they had a restroom
To the cashier as she left the employees’ restroom and
She said no
As if I didn’t believe in words as much as she
As if my piss was as worthless, pound for pound, as
American lager beer. The trapped room feel of this
San Francisco does not play well for the hangover. Now I
Perceive sky above the ceiling out here in Half Moon Bay.
I don’t worry for the surfers’ lives as the man with binoculars
Who calls to boats from shore that they are a threat like a cut
On the arm or a pack of harbor seals, kissing wet-suited feet
And confusing the careless Great Whites.

People are going home, but why now? There is no mass
After noon and perhaps even the sacred virgin is enjoying
The basketball game on television. Even as they all go, the high tide
Moves in like a lonely dog, begging to go home with them
To large chicken dinners with rice and family prayer. God,
You too do think of revision, and as I turn my back and face
The parking lot, you continue counting the scattered rocks
And keeping the Pacific company.