There were summer nights when the pacific fog spilled over the redwoods and cooled the folly of summer day into the humid calm of night. Pearl's starting to warm the North Beach with jazz and smoke, and Pearl by the door, as the band played on a Friday.
We were all swaying to the beat of Basie and Goodman, as the world of the Bay sauntered by taking Kodak photos of streets where America once stood, clear in devotion to that which had been ignored. Sympathy.
Now Polk is littered with hunched souls on phones, callus to the wind and the beat. The fog that brought our ears to hear the mechanical grinding of the steel-grey coast beating the rhythm of valve steam screams in the sullen night, gone. Homogenized by a medium of who gives a rat's ass.