Can’t
afford anything this night but the streets, walking by Foster’s I see a man
prone and motionless on the sidewalk. I go next door to alert the hotel clerk
that possibly someone is dead. He hurries out. Upon shaking the man by his
ankles, the clerk has this to say, “Don’t worry about him; he is just in a
drunken stupor.” I then keep on walking on Market Street. San Francisco at
night is neon. I still have not claimed my baggage at the Greyhound Depot. I
need to find Fred and Alex. They are a gay couple I knew in Seattle. But now it
is three in the morning. I impulsively come down to San Francisco, and although
I have relatives here, I don’t feel like I can meet them like this. I need to
walk some more hours until it is dawn in North Beach. I have only a twenty bill
in my wallet, a choice between breaking it on a pack of Marlboro or a cup of
coffee and a donut at Foster’s. I could not make decisions like these and that
is the reason they reject me from the Army. Sally says that I have to measure a
sandwich with a ruler before I cut it in half.
For poetry: Five Willows Poetry
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