"The coldest winter I ever spent was an August in San Francisco." Mark Twain
At five o'clock the "backs" back off
Riddle the sky, throw blank stares at each other
We don't know why we are here
Your ennui not more valuable than mine
I dream my heart through roses
It's August in San Francisco
The fog grips the psyche like an iron vice
There's no use to cry "Uncle"
No one except the advent of blue and sunshine
Will lift one off the mat:
It's winter. There's no way out
You better die and die a little more
If one breathes there will be relief in September
Or, head to the high country
Give in to neither bad politics
Or bad - we got tons of it - weather.
Stephen V
Blog: http://stephenvincent.durationpress.com
|