A Smooth June
I’d found an apartment
just beneath Nob Hill,
where even back then
people would say
TenderNob rather than
Tenderloin. Lower Nob
Hill. I made a little
office out of half of the
closet of that studio
apartment. It had a
window with a pretty
view behind the old
fire station that had
become the residence
of the Fire Chief, or
had been. The current
Fire Chief had stayed
at their current residence.
Or that was my under
standing. But there
was a lovely back lawn
behind it that I could
see out that window,
which was spotted with
live blooming plants
here and there. This
was my first room with
a view in the city that
has become my home,
where I’ve lived longer
than any other city.
Or town. Or state,
even. I had a little
bookshelf in that
office, the bottom
shelf of which was
filled with journals
I’d filled over the
years, my diaries,
which I no longer
have, having lost
the last of all that
I’d kept from the
beginning of time,
my time, when I
was fifty and with
out a home. Any
way, the flowers,
such a pretty thing
to see during the
day. And at night,
way up in the sky
and to the north,
my right, looking
out that window,
I’d see the huge
neon sign that I
knew stood atop
the Hotel Huntington.
I suppose I know this
because the words
in neon were “Hotel
Huntington.” At
night in my new
studio apartment
where I wrote the
first of these pieces.
