The Last Evening in January:
The city looks better beneath an umbrella. But the wind blows so cold & passionately off the Pacific Ocean, like midnite jazz in old Fillmore… I wear a halfhour of rain in my clothing by the time I reach the lips of a coffeecup in SoMa. I don’t have a friend w/which to speak, not a soul. So I smear the fogged windowpane w/hope & drip water all over a new countertop. Blue Bottle, Mint Plaza. The finest Americano since Stumptown circa 2006. I take a polaroid to commemorate it all. Wish you were here.
