San Francisco Afternoon

Waiting thirteen minutes
for a 2nd rate beer
a Sunday afternoon
In the empty bar
the one with the pretentious name

trying to be too smooth
but i’ll submit to comfort
low-slung leather lounge
glass table top reflection

C:

the menu has martinis
but i am drinking beer
this menu lists tapas
but i am nowhere near
not eating, just drinking
and thinking
somewhere far away from here

thinking on a San Francisco afternoon
finding her walk-up
brick and stone tiny room
redwood walls and Chinese food

somewhere near
the Embarcadero
waiting for red-headed Tina
who i ran from years before

leaving in a hurry
and coming on too soon
admitting that in retrospect
you meant more than i let on

so i continue
waiting vacantly
sipping slowly
and sitting low

the menu has martinis
but i am drinking beer
this menu is listing tapas
but i am nowhere near
hardly can guess where i’m strolling
suppose i am going home

a lost afternoon for me
belatedly exchanged for
the 
broken heart
i maybe gave you

like that foreign film
where the subtitles might say
i’m erred on a cloudy day
by the well near the olive hill

but really now
if you happened by
i just want an afternoon
of coffee, weed and your tangled sheets

like times before i ventured
drifting literal oceans away
unsure if you even remember
Salt Lake night in the Avenues

climbing oaks and sneaking into
that mansion that’s for sale forever
drinking port wine in the broken attic

or maybe you noticed me out here
peeking through a curtain
hoping to stumble like a coincidence
holding crocuses like missed conceptions
and faltered connections

the menu has martinis
but i am drinking beer
this menu is listing tapas
but i am nowhere near

i am gone elsewhere
somewhere far from you
and here