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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