The last time it snowed in San Francisco
my parents had just arrived, house hunting
on an extended honeymoon. You know
there were bridges. His wedding ring,
pockmarked with hammered ridges,
squeezed and bunched-up against the skin.
Hers, a fragile snowflake, touched down
briefly beneath the knuckle and on the verge
of melting. And all of this was before three
thousand miles of middle came between.
Before airplane reservations, stop-overs
at anonymous eateries, distant terminal waiting
lines, and series after series of too close
for comfort connecting flights. There, layered
underneath the road, the strings of cable
cars poured beneath the solid tar, there’s slush
on top of concrete. That constant hum that
could drag or pull partial personalities,
the grind and gasp of destination
somewhere distant. Or seeing possible
picket fences there beyond a further hill
daytime tourists made for sensible shoes,
double-layered windbreakers, and slippery
slogging up California street, the trolley
cars undependable in slick tracks
through glittery white. Shopkeepers
withdrew half their merchandise that week,
the weather too obscene for typical sunshine
pondering. Mismatched sizes of tee shirt
scripts inside, and all that remained
were discards—promises bound tight
through chest and arms. Piles of I Left
My Heart in San Francisco to pick through
and wonder at the various measurements
required. Held hands and shivered into
stores. Tried one, and then another. Reconsidered size.