It's my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk among the rum-colored puddles
on Pine. First, down the sidewalk
where Seattle Central kids fork their clumsy
lime-stung fingers into tacos
with Jarritos, their Seahawks beanies
on. They protect them from wind
chill, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where pit bulls canter
on the leash and fling drool both
ways. The sun is weak, but the
bar signs glow a little. I look
at bargains in new books. There
are babies playing at the bus stop.
to Madison Street, where cars
blow exhaust under my coat, and higher
the rain pools lightly. A
shirtless man with a chest tattoo
flexes his biceps, toothlessly grinning.
"This is Bruce Lee's body!" A
bystander claps. Nothing
more: it is 1:40 of
Lakes in daylight are a
great pleasure, as Richard Brautigan would
write, as are mountains in daylight.
I stop for a coffee at ODDFELLOWS
CAFE. The Vaselines, favorites
of Kurt Cobain, "Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam."
And Neumos-headlining. A man
in a flat cap on such a day eats pizza
There are several construction
workers on the avenue today, which
makes it male and loud. First
the Fun House died, then Piecora's,
then the Hurricane. But is this
place as full as life was full, of them?
And one is caffeinated and one walks,
past the Babeland dildos
and the posters for CASCADIA and
The Stranger's building,
which they won't tear down. I
used to think Dan Savage worked
A sip of cold coffee
and back to work. My heart is in my
pocket, it is Lunch Poems by Frank O'Hara.