“Excuse me, could you point me in the direction of Jack
Kerouac?”
“Of course, ma’am, he’s covering the dry martini waterfront now
Asking the tourist planks ‘where are the squeaking
docks,
The rotting crabs, the green ropes of my city? Home of sad
Laundromats, you’ve become as humorless as your emojis!’
He grasps like that at forbidden straws
By the bay’s still turquoise grays,
Storytelling training for the homeless nearby,
And nothing you can do but leave.
“There’s some satisfaction in that, you know,
Like you’ve actually accomplished something.”
