Taking a walk on Sunday
helloing to people who nod back.
Almost like I’m inside a George Seurat painting,
everything measured in careful dots.
But this is the San Leandro Marina,
and not the Island of La Grand Jette.
Bristle cone pines outline the parking lot,
a captive audience as sandpipers
fuss at water’s edge bothering rocks.
I watch Southwest jets skim fishing poles
on their way to the airport.
San Francisco is a floating city.
Hoodie weather.
Brine to clear my head, clouds in trousers.
How I’m only a small sequin on the ocean’s gown.
Watch elected officials plane boxes
to fit the size of their own small truth.
A seagull drops a cracked mussel shell at my feet.
I like this, can I send it out on FB with attribution to you?
Sure thing, and thanks!
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