That brown Buick predates even
the madam who bought it
in a handshake deal
from an old crackhead who lives to this day
alone on Taylor Street.
The freeway is no place
to take it for a spin.
Keep instead to the alleys and
the sleepy avenues that run
from Stanyan to the beach.
This is how she spends her night:
staring wordlessly at the roaring sea,
smoking menthol cigarettes. She
drinks it all in: waves, sand,
and colorless time.
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