a thin fog between me and the Pyramid, and
construction constricts Columbus Avenue.
Acme Bread truck double-parked
Brewer’s blackbird grabs a crumb from a dropped challah,
looks up at me with one yellow eye.
The falafel place across the street has closed for good.
In front of it, a man my age
plays erhu; the languid song
is clear above the din of traffic.
North Beach, 2/4
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