The dark drifts around the streets San Francisco turns blue at the glass doors of the bus depot. A young man stares through the main doors seventh street watching the people, static as though he has always stood there. A horn honks, passing cars People talking around many corners The clock ascends slowly keeping time with patience. The ticket agent grits his teeth with smiles the lobby empties he relaxes with his reflection in the window. The fog collects and dissipates in the breezes the yellow tears of another alcoholic turn cold under the yellow lights of the bus depot, just passing through. How much is a ticket to Phoenix?
13 August 1973