Living with Grace

 

Pigeons, blackbirds, gulls, dogs and the ripple

of an erotic fountain.

Sunlight and cool shadows.

Tight jeaned women and a white gened

strutting man, shirtless in a vest,

all pass by a ponderously slow old lady whose hours

were spent dressing for this event.

 

A great day in San Francisco

is better than a great day

anywhere else.

 

I reach these conclusions easily,

sitting here across from Grace,

here at the start of a century,

here with a grin on my face.

 

I watch an Asian lady

quietly reading nearby.

I watch two black “dudes”,

the term was correctly picked,

jiving each other, not ten feet apart.

One had haled the other from the high steps of Grace,

in a voice that was hardly above normal,

(The crisp air here is incredible today.),

one crossing the street to the park,

talking all the way.

They meet with an exuberant slap and a grab,

and are gone, gone, gone,

leaving a vacuum behind.

 

I’d just been to Grace Cathedral

just a short while before,

had slowly walked the labyrinth

before crossing to the park.

Here I am an atheist with Grace

here at the start of a century.

 

Children play on the playground,

men benched and shirtless in the winter sun,

young children escorting grandparents,

have I landed in paradise?

Is there someone with this feeling

in a public square in

Mogadishu, Sarajevo, Tikrit?

 

Men and women holding hands.

Men and men holding hands.

Loving ladies hands entwined, and

No one is taking notes but me.

A young brother and sister play catch with their father,

and purple-throated pigeons stagger to me like drunks,

and reject me without judgment, because I have no food.

 

A dog barks happily.

A cable car rings, and

I remember a day like this

in Berkeley that I thought

would never come again.

Young and alive in Berkeley

Over thirty winters past.

 

Here in San Francisco, at the start of

The 21st Century,

 a beautiful girl walks by,

and no one appears to notice,

until she’s passed and all the males

on the benches, and not just a few females,

slyly turn their heads, even me, and all

would be easily caught if she turned her head

a fraction.

Her slight smile betrays her knowledge,

and her power.

 

The Grace Cathedral bells are ringing

YES, YOU

are lucky to be in San Francisco, here at the

start of the century.

 

Men in the afternoon glow in full dress suits

read books and observe the proceedings.

Bag ladies from the bushes pass

homey ladies from Kansas.

Elderly white haired men with

impeccable milky white skin

and manners promenade

with their lady twins,

(Two were wearing identical berets.),

it is clear they have been doing this, Sundays,

since 1956.

 

Natives proudly pontificate to visitors

in a different language every minute.

“Bishop Pike….”

“Gee, I think that she was a gypsy, wasn’t she?”

Superseded by the sound of a 10 speed.

 

Two old gay guys and their dog

say their goodbyes

to a handsome middle age woman.

All four seem surrounded by such class

and such grace,

that I am somewhat ashamed to have listened.

 

The sweet easy murmur of conversation

is all around me.

It comes and it goes, punctuated by laughter,

and with the shifts of the breeze.

 

 

On a bench sits a black dressed, black ringletted

Black woman with a blond haired, white sweat shirted, white guy.

On the next bench, an Asian man shares a snack

And the Sunday papers with a red haired lady.

Why don’t I see these things on TV?

Poor derelicts move quietly by the lovers

Hopefully, silently begging.

“Non-aggressive” reads the sign of one,

checking out the trashcans.

 

Tears flood my eyes, affirmation comes

From the bells of Grace,

Yes, I am

Lucky to be here in San Francisco

On a winters day

at the start of the 21st century.

 

                             Alix Hellas