The wharf was busy; it was a Saturday and the sun was high in the sky. Strangely enough, it was hot. She wanted to get to the deYoung in time.
Eliza pulled impatiently on the hand and pulled her toward the circle of people, who were no doubt watching a street urchin or a performer.
“No, honey,” her mother said, “not today.” Eliza didn’t listen and ran up, wedging herself between the bodies of bystanders.
“Look, mommy! It’s a game.”
The man was a con, Marie knew this. She let Eliza gander.  
“One dollar a play, ladies and gents,” the man said, “sorry sweetheart, kids aren’t allowed.” Eliza looked up at her mommy and pushed a dollar in to her hand. Not wanting a scene, Marie smiled and put it down.
“Just once, darling,” she said through whitened teeth and a botoxed smile. She didn’t know why she was doing this. It came to her in the moment and so she acted.
The man put a ball in the cup and told her to watch so she did. His hands were swift and mesmerizing. She knew that the ball was under the right one. She pointed. He lifted. It wasn’t there. Eliza wanted to know if she could play and if not why. Her mother told her that it was a big girl game and little girls couldn’t play. Eliza started crying so Marie put down another dollar and let her watch, just to get her to shut up. The man twisted to cups again and she failed. It happened again. And again, and again. The deYoung would close, she knew, but nothing could compare to the feeling of winning. In the end, the man got twenty of her dollars. The museum wasn’t so important.
When they were in the Saint Francis’s elevators, Marie bent down and smiled at Eliza.
“When poppa asks, dear, remember: we went to the museum and had a splendid time.”

As I sit here in a late night stupor,
Throat burning from cigarette smoke and hot ash,
I bear witness as Shaw cries out to DeYoung,
Trying so hard to give him a lift and a light,
To shore up the talented man's morale and instill a will to fight.

As he starts in on this,
I take a sip of coffee,
Burning lips and tongue upon the bitter brew,
With a muttered curse and a wince,
Eyes begin to relax just a bit,
As accolades are rained upon DeYoung.

But like that first distant rumble of faraway thunder,
That is the harpinger of a massive storm to come,
Tones beginning to change,
As if the more he speaks the more his patience wears until-

SNAP!

- an accusation is thrown out like a slap to the face,
That there's more that he can do,
If only he stopped getting in his own way.

Tap-tap upon the ashtray as ash falls into a heap of itself,
Lids growong heavier still,
The song like an anthem of conciousness,
And knowing that it would soon run out of steam.

Sweet sleep avoided,
Each nights dreams becoming vivid to a disturbing degree,
Like some kinda ****** up inversion as to how I want it to be,
Like how it use to be,
Before the hooks of this monotony sunk so deep as to embed into the bone.

The mountain seems so high as it towers overhead,
And makes me want to knock the **** out of me from so many months ago,
But erecting myself straight as tighten once again,
Clear and sharp once more.