Not even the sharp plumb bow of the building
set in the sidewalk like a ship in a moderate sea,
with the cash register in the fo’c’sul
about where the storm anchor would lodge,

nor the black & red checkered first floor
bring back the memory of my first
and only other visit to this city
thirty years ago. But something,
something is the same

and not only the name "City Lights"
of that of Ferlinghetti—proprietor,
publisher, and poet—but my thirst, this thirst
for poetry in liquid, popular printings
outside the paneled confines
of the AMTRAC corridor, the Greyhound heartland
where no sailor wanders.

Copyright © 1999 Whitecap Brothers.