Something romantic about walking
through dark San Francisco alleyways
at four in the morning. Of a weekend.
Slaked with the throb of,
you guessed it,
dance music.
Losing your sense of direction can be
catharsis. I remember trying to
drive home, three in the morning,
realizing I’m well past Roxbury,
somehow I’ve completely bypassed
Jamaica Plain.
I remember concentrating intently
on not hitting the construction barriers
on I-75 when I lived in Toledo.
How do I remember these besotted
moments when I can barely remember
anything?
