NOB HILL--There is nothing like Sunday morning just as the sun comes up. It's a time that always directs my thoughts to my small tick in time and space...a speck, a random note, a hint of a thought, a breath, a glance...
I am looking at the cars on Central Ave. disappear into the east. I never think about Sunday as a time for going away, only for going home...or coming home. I left my parents back in Illinois. I think about them this morning.
Turning into the driveway...
walking up to the door,
the yellow lamp still in the window,
and now their big smiles, tears...they
were always so so glad to see me.
Now they are gone and home
isn't beyond that eastern mountain;
it is where I say it is. No wonder, then,
I feel like such a speck, a random note
in a quiet morning, a hint of a thought
too distant to form completely,
a shallow breath, a glance back
across time and space.
I go into the restaurant,
get a cup of coffee,
and quietly sit down.
I think I will wait for those green lights
to change. I think I will wait right here.
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