i still like to watch

the tourtists at fisherman's wharf

just as i like 

to watch the buskers

both make me feel humanity

is good at the core

that there is hope, and sometimes

it comes in the form 

of clam chowder in a sourdough bowl

or a dollar

left in a guitar case

and the kids and the bushman

and the trinkets

brightly colored and cheap 

in the windows

of the shops lining beach and embarcedaro streets

and the narrow side streets, offer more hope

when i was little

someone brought me a magic box

from fisherman's wharf

a puzzle box

i keep my most precious treasures

in the box

a ring made of wood a friend made

a coin from an ancient place, i don't remember where

an agate

a turquoise scarab

i found on a walk one time

a note from someone i love, on stiff paper, folded twice

of course 

some treasures are too large for the box

a sky blue hair ribbon

a ponytail cut off in swift snip, still in the rubber band

still blonde, still silky

treasures that never seem to lose their meaning

on the contrary

~

the gulls are messy

on firsherman's wharf, the sunning seals raucous

and if the wind is wrong, oh my

i love of all of it

but it isn't the place to go

if you're feeling blue

watching others have such fun

can be difficult

for such occasions 

i prefer the library, or the park, or a cafe

and take my sketchbook

and though there are many happy people at the park

there are also many solitary people

who may be like me

on a happy day, though

i'd rather be at fisherman's wharf that anywhere else

and be one of the happy throng