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.