splish splosh splashing
through puddles at 37.55 latitude.
Rainwater catches the back of
A boat ride to the rock,
I’ve sat on Al Capones toilet
and in the yard,
I heard the city, alive,
the ringing bells of the boats in the bay,
the bark of the seals
the crash of the waves.
At the wharf.
Nearby, the trams rattle along the gradients of
Tenderloin, Haight-Ashbury, Market Street.
And I remember you left scratched sunglasses
in the hotel as we left the city.