underground we wait
for train to come
pacing platform from one end
uh the tother
aboveground in the Tuesday night air
cicada hum of trolley rails
cradles Powell St. in its
familiar mechanolectrical drone

how eerie were it to cease
and plunge invisible hypothetical
sanfranciscans into
desert silence.

tuesdays and thursdays
not end days or middle days but
days to fill the space between dreams
of eyes and nose and lips

tuesday night streets deserted
hotel cafes lit up
but don't be fooled
they're shut

look up at her window but the light is out
tears beg for expression but
eyes are too tired and dry and it feels
like refusing nausea its due

girl of my dreams
girl that dances in my dreams
which way is market?
are you sure?

follow the trolley tracks
they know which way to go
and will lead you to
more tracks, more trials,

more tuesdays