You’re not in San Francisco.

You know you are not in the BAY when there are seats left open at the free Wi-Fi café.

You know when the cashiers at Trader Joe’s are genuinely surprised you brought your own canvas bags.

You know when you are the only pedestrian walking down a busy street mid morning. No sleeping bag citizens, a constant rushing stream of red-light-lit cars.

You know when the only things you can hear outside are airplanes and weed-whackers.

When the sun is shining and you’re the only fool in the middle of a big grass-green square park.

Haven’t seen a pigeon in weeks, just millions of palm trees.

About detangledprosereview

I am a human rights advocate with a knack for inter-contextually. I am a storyteller, a ceramists, a pan-art lover, a feminist, and a humanist.
This entry was posted in Memoir, Poetic Fragments, Poetry, San Francisco. Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to You’re not in San Francisco.

  1. Ha you know you’re not in SF when you walk into a restaurant and the wait isn’t long enough to go catch a movie and come back in time to finish the daily crossword puzzle.

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