— Barbara Saxton
The Bay Bridge’s tall towers dissolve
in thick fog while we lunch on udon,
teriyaki, tempura–coaxing meddlesome topics
to the edge of our plates
with blond wooden chopsticks.
I paid the bill as you biked off
down Market, rushing to share
secrets to the tune of a therapist’s
loud ticking meter.
After you left, I boarded the N-Judah
streetcar, traversing your City in clanky torpidity
to the Ocean Beach endpoint.
There, standing alone on wet sand,
I conjured cool, content strangers
on the far shores of vastness.
I cannot write away tears,
or halt the flow of wicked time.
You rode away; so did I.
Each in different directions.