San Francisco, July 2010
A Poem by Randi C. Abel
San Francisco, July 2010
I am living
on ten dollars a day:
a cup of coffee,
two bus rides,
and a taco.
I am really living
in a house
with no rooms
and the sweet smell of piss
on the corner
where the bums sleep
on Saturdays.
Waiting for a bus
on 16th and Mission
I get hassled
and harassed
by men in cars with
black windows yelling
“Hey baby, can I give you a ride?
Get in. I’ll take you places
you never knew you wanted to go.”
Buying cherries
for 99 cents a pound
at the Mexican markets,
the hogs’ heads
devoid of blood
smile at me from behind the glass.
Everything was stolen
so I
sneak into bars
get friends to buy me
cheap bottles of wine
and 24oz cans of Bud.
Get drunk
and stoned
because there is nothing
else to do.
There are
no papers to write,
no paychecks to earn,
no one who needs me
to show up on time.
So I
wake up at noon
watch Casablanca
until 3 in the morning,
share cigarettes.
I don’t tell anyone
I’m cleaning houses for cash,
not writing a thing,
wasting days in the park,
and drinking Irish tea
while scheming up
the next big plan.
But there is friendship
and guys who try to
make out with me
in the kitchen
when it is late
and everyone is wasted,
and ex-cons
who give me
my best night in San Francisco,
and girls with purple hair
who bring me art.
About the Creator
Randi Abel
Poet and storyteller currently based out of Denver, Colorado.
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