Nine to Five
Fog opening out through brown dawn. Cream in a cup of Earl Gray. May God speak through daylight gleaming off steel? Nob Hill looks down on a crane fifteen stories tall at Market and Ninth dropping another wall of drab slabs bundled for the doozers, the beefy handsome doozers who cobble together a high rise. They repair to the East Bay after five to poker games in two-car garages dotting the Vallejo hillside that once gave us crates of oranges our grandfathers would pack onto trains trundling towards the Rockies and beyond.
No comments:
Post a Comment