Sun Continental

Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind—
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

You could give me a wheel of lives, you could let me swipe through them, pick one, see how it plays out, repeat, but I think I would still pick this one, over, over, and over, with its days like syrup and nights like pearl, holding my breath in the rush hour 33 and a dog starts licking my hand, getting tacos, super tacos, not beef but carne asada, tossing pretzel chips to the Baker Beach seagulls, holding snowy plovers from the Andytown at Ocean Beach, watching the sky turn the color of peach, then bayberry, then plum from FiDi or San Mateo or Millbrae, seeing SoMa streets and remembering of the last time I was there, who I was with, like I can almost see it, hearing the stutters of a gas car's engine, acceleration shaky, putting on the 2016 Waaarriorrrs and it's late but can one late night with you really be bad for me.

On the way to Ithaka, I can't wait to see the harbors I'll disembark at and the wares at the stations I'll visit; that much is certain. I'll leave the rest to the wind.