"A Jennifer Beales flash mob?
There? To that song?"
She, exasperated, shuts
her laptop, sits somewhat askance, wrong.
We huddle in the windswept
clapboard New England-style shack.
Dusk, without fail,
that ubiquitous smell:
guano and what may as well
be dog shit:
Seals and sea lions.
One day they'll bark for real.
They'll scream, an army
at our rear as we evacuate
To the dinghy, which will
sink and rise
on the swells. Seagulls,
an incredible
mess of them, will blacken the sky.
San Francisco,
faded and frayed, these days so worn
will never not be our port.
We, the PBS losers, the abstruse
vermin wranglers
have never had a choice
but to slouch home, derided
or ignored. It is to be hoped
at best the latter
as our fondest reminiscences
mean nothing
to the stroller-shoving fag,
to the Valencia Street
Betty Paige-banged hag
who drags her feet on stable concrete.
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