Love Poem

Just let the San Andreas stay put, keeping this tunnel intact, enough to amble out of it, past Louie’s Dim Sum a Saturday afternoon, a breeze detectable off the bay—visible in the distance, carrying with it the smells of open air markets: crab freshly caught and seahorses piled in bins along Stockton . . . or Jack, strolling out of the tube connecting Polk Gulch and North Beach, on his way to Aquatic Park to spread the Sporting Green on his favorite patch of grass . . . He is ferrying the portable radio to his ear, listening for the count in the bottom of the ninth at Candlestick, begins to smooth the pages with the palms before he sits to keep it dry: the split seat of his pants for Jack Spicer (1925-1965)