San Francisco, the last weekend in May.
Today the Golden Gate Bridge
Is 75 years old.
The fog has burned off and the chilly
morning has turned into a lovely
Sunday afternoon.
I sit upstairs at Vesuvio
in my favorite seat
drinking Irish Coffee
and playing with poems
and stories
just above me
the sad ghost of Richard Brautigan
stomps about
moving furniture around
making strange noises
full of laughter and rage
from time to time
he will come downstairs
for another glass of wine
or another order
of flowerburgers.
