Shady streets of Shattuck
and Telegraph, home to ever-present
drifters and hep, and ever-present woe
won't you sing beneath the stars and traffic lights?
for whether or not dawn is breeching, the moon
like a jealous sibling in cosmic conflict.
We need another glass
I fill mine with the good stuff
with a splash and to ignite a crutch
so that we might have pillows like  
clouds of smoke to rest our restless, gaping,
restless, wicked, pinned pupils, we make
our own boundaries, our own expectations, which,
in and of themselves are beautiful articulations of
day by day. This moment we wave goodbye.
Spitting out ill-gotten thoughts, unfiltered
with hope and prayer that in the morning
we will be back at the old familiar station
dripping with contentment and familiar
that home is right under our feet. The Bart,
more like a vessel than I have ever known
who makes voyages feel like calmly strolls
through parks which lead us to  San Leandro
to Oakland, to Daly City, to Ashby and Fremont
tasting and smelling home when we reach old San Jose
upon another transit that sways all the way
to Santa Cruz to home and relief, and the load lessens
to a stop, although I truly feel we've started over
to begin, although the bright, bright lights blink
off and on for me as we stray homeward, as if to say
"We will see."