Late Saturday Night


… a saxophone’s mournful wail …

… young people amble by, not quite lit, not quite shadowy, in the storefront lights under old-fashioned street lamps that have seen dudes and dandies, clipper-ship sailors and Great War veterans bragging about Paris to their lady of the night…

… the red backlights of cars down the hill, swank limousines, an earnestness of buses, a single embarrassed truck …

… the sounds of sandpapery footsteps, if you close your eyes, a gurgling of voices like an underground spring, sneaky machine moans, the prim silence of a Prius …

… cables running under the street, a swishy whine of metal against metal, curiously consoling …

… laughter, the quick voices of chattery Czech and New Zealand and French and Mandarin and who knows what else, an arm waving as a street car passes …

… the smell of eggrolls, ice cream, beer …

… the starless night above, the black street below, a clicking of heels, the unseen bay and the sea …