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.

One 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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