Dolores Park, Sunday Afternoon

It sickens you:
"Just look at them."
My eyes bore into her,
all parasol and overstuffed
black lace, pudgy pale
fingers flying over her iPhone.


"They've ruined this place."
I disagree, but in my heart
chide the Ohlone for not speculating
in real estate.  "The only killings
they ended up making
had antlers or blowholes."


There is a lie I want to be true
but I cannot distract you
from hating the only town
that would have you.
"I hear Buena Vista
is an old Indian burial ground."


You ignore me and frown
as though in reply
to what you wanted me to have said.
Gay men in speedos
litter the fruit shelf around us.
I secretly make plans to visit the dead.