The Transit Chronicles, and other San Francisco Dreams
“Yes, a girl!” exclaims the little lime-green-clad pixie hopping on the bus
Thrilled that the driver is one of her kind
To the pigeons in St. Mary’s Cathedral Park at 1:30pm on a Tuesday,
I am sorry to have invaded your space
I’m also sorry that those small children chased you with sticks
Although I think they were only made of plastic
Your flight formations were beautiful
To the man who does tai chi in the dewy field with the crows in the morning,
Thank you
To the dads of the world:
Don’t leer at me out the window of your car
While your teenage son slumps in the passenger seat
You’re not teaching him to be a good man
Let him see you hold open the door for a woman
Or tell his mother how strong she is
Two men on the train discuss an upcoming double-blind-date:
“Well- I hope one of em’s rich and I hope one of em’s sexy”
There is something really nice about the too-early morning
The fog on the horizon
Punctuated by blue sloping hills
The ethereal lavender of a pre-weather sky
The quiet calm stillness
Not empty, but asleep
Streetlights buzz and the train hums
Waiting for its commuters
I think about
All the other lives
The man running the bases at the field in the morning
As I walk to catch my train to work
He runs slow and steady, slow and steady
A constant motion, so many years of taking steps
How did he get to this North Berkeley baseball field
To his North Berkeley existence
Where he no longer has to walk my path to the station
Only follows his own footsteps around
And around
Until his feet are tired
And his bones are cold
And his dog is barking
And the coffee is on
My North Face jacket and leather briefcase
Metal tumbler full of coffee
The Bay Area status symbols that make her smile shyly
When I take the seat beside her
I want to tell her that
I’m an imposter
I take this train everyday to
An impossibly bougie world
Silver spoons for teeth
And I don’t care about any of this
Just run the race to blend into it
But we don’t live in a world where I tell her this
Or where she believes me
You’re thinking of that hard time,
He said,
Scraping the barrel and
Sleepless nights and
That time we went to the ER on a Sunday night and a fight broke out
No, I’m thinking of that good time,
I said,
When my favorite shoes wore out their soles from too much walking and
Every penny we saved went toward our wedding and
We cooked a lot and grew a lot and
Cried a lot
And learned a deeper love
For life and for each other
I’m thinking of that hard, good time,
We said in unison
And the corners of our mouths cracked upward to the sky
You moved to Fog City,
It said
Child let me wrap you up
Soft and wise and cold
I ride the same train everyday as
The man with the bowl haircut
We acknowledge one another
The joy of sameness
On Tuesday before Thanksgiving the smell of piss and sweat is replaced by
Pancakes and bacon
Wafting up the escalator and out onto the street
The old native man wears
A ponytail bound by rainbow colors
He smiles at the pavement
Appreciating its cracks
A December sky over San Francisco covers
Nineteen pigeons picking at a pizza
The bundled commuters ascending from the station
SUV roadrage and cigarette clouds
We are buzzing now
Monday morning coffee and
The promise of white lights
Evergreens smile from every window
You were the one who
Considered stuff I never thought of
Like
Why don’t we cross the street
To walk in the sun?
“Stuart,” she says discreetly,
“Is the kind of man who will just simply make you feel wanted”
He wears glasses like his father
Looking for a seat on the terrace in the morning
He settles on the one where his dad can get the clearest view
Coffee sips and easy sighs
They take a photo together,
Arms around each other in wool sweaters
And then, matching gaits,
Disappear through the sliding doors
Her hair is just like her mother’s
Straight and full of flyaways
Shoulder to shoulder on the cross-country bus,
They laugh in the same key
I am missing your soft shoulder
The quiet comfort of sitting next to you
Your low chuckle and your sparkling eyes
The same color as my own
I am uncertain of my own heartbeat
She says aloud
And the sound bounces back to her
Tile and metal frames
The hallway clears and
She sits, listening
Hoping to come across it
Or to find something else,
Something more concrete
On which to hang her fears