we rejoiced
when the sign on the parking meter said we could park for free.

your kind hand
in clumsy mind,

we strolled.

we were caught between the arts and business district,
so the shops and eateries weren't
sure if they should be cool or classy.

we strolled.

we passed an army of delis now abandoned.
a greek place,
a gelato,
a couple of hotel diners,
we rounded the block,
came back close to our start,
decided on the only restaurant
that was open.

as we were seated,
the already present patrons
stared ceaselessly, with no blinking.

people always stare at us.
i think they have trouble
categorizing us.

we aren't fat.
i don't wear affliction t-shirts,
you don't dress ******,
we are caught somewhere
between the summer of '72 and indie rock brats.

our waiter was uneasy,
he had black hair, a beard,
a voice that squeaked and stuttered
as he boasted the organic and local support
the restaurant waved as their prideful flag.

order taken, people still throwing quick glances,
the music was right up our alley.

we took turns saying the names of the bands.
Cake, The Strokes, Spoon (the setlist's favorite), a deep cut from Bowie's Low, and a multitude of indie darlings that i can't remember.

i fell in love with you again.
i guess that makes the fifth or sixth time.
your child's eyes,
warm laughter,
and noble concern for the ****** state of the world.

it was good conversation,
it was good food,
it was a pleasant warm-up
for the remainder of our
getaway weekend.