I made it to another Sunday night.

I made it to another Sunday night.

Another flight, another Airport, another hotel room, another Sunday night.
But I think it ends there.

This is different already. I opened the window in my room, to the night and San Francisco rushed in and filled my room: Herb Caen over coffee & Chinamen scurrying up Grant Ave to an unknown doorway and an unknown meal.

Three Hippies tossed a frisbee on an endless Sunday afternoon while Grace Slick sings “Lather was thirty years old today,
They took away all of his toys.”

Two old men steady their way by holding old hands together, not in love but with fear concern until they reach the edge of the pier.

And the rich full air of San Francisco tossles thinning white hair and fills their lungs with memories of youth and girls, and glasses of wine. They had each felt that air one morning while she made eggs and toast while they listened to San Francisco through the open window.

It is different now. But the air is still full of chill and good cheer and brightens your cheek and lets you think about that one night and that one day.

Just some thoughts, just some things I wanted to say. I can’t talk to my rummy friends about so many things so I just leave these little crumbs, strings of words that might cause a smile or stir an old memory in a good way


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