The unanticipated consequence
of having
a heart that’s breaking,
and
a soul that searching,
and a mind that’s wondering,
is that a view
of San Francisco bay
at sunset
absolutely flat lines
you.

Nothing.
No emotions.
No memories.
No smiles.
No desiring Allejandro’s.
No craving
walking down Columbus Street
or North Beach to find some pasta
or cannoli.
No wishing for family style
in Chinatown.

Oh wait!
There IS a memory.
A blond haired,
blue-eyed
man,
with his back to the Golden Gate Bridge,
Russell Wilson jersey repping,
hands raised
high
in the air,
middle fingers
extended.

Yep.
F the Whiners.
F the Quakes.
F the A’s.
And the Giants.
F San Francisco.

But mostly,
F the Whiners.