Suzuki in San Francisco 

Late, the city empties itself for me. 
I ride my motorcycle up and down
the rolling, palm-studded hills of Dolores Street.
The damp hangs in the air and glistens
in the street lamps. It invades my well worn
jacket and second-hand leather gloves.

I cruise to Noe Valley 
and my favorite sushi place,
where an old Japanese woman asks me 
if I want the motorcycle fish (Suzuki). 
We laugh every time.

Now near the Mission with its vibrant murals,
rich smells of lengua, tripas, cabeza.
I stop for a midnight street taco,
squeezing lime, then three quick blinks,
sharp sting in my eye.

Later, I thread my way to Lombard Street.
Usually crowded with tourists,
its vacant twists and turns invite me 
down to see the lit-up Bay Bridge
as I feather the clutch and 
feed the brakes slowly 
so my bike doesn’t run away.

But here’s a secret I know—
the most twisty street 
is in Potrero Hill on Vermont.
The locals picnic in a park at the top
and live in colorful Victorians
you can pass by any time you want.

I crave Ocean Beach 
where the thick, salty fog rolls in,
and find the Lost Weekend bar at the end of the L Taraval 
where I once heard the Mermen so close 
I felt their sweat as they played.

Tired, I head home to Glen Park.
I pull off my helmet, ruffle my hair, 
and let the cool fog settle on my face.

The sun will rise soon with the noise of the city.
But tomorrow it empties itself for me again.