Geary bridge at Webster

It's already late, two cold sake's after midnight.

All the poets in San Francisco are asleep and, as a poet once said, everyone's a poet in San Francisco.

A chilly little wind passes right through you as you walk back to your car, which is parked on the other side of Geary.

One of you liked the movie, two of you didn't; but all of you were glad to have seen it together.

For few moments you all stop in the middle of the bridge and look down at the cars which pass like verbs made of gasoline and light.

And one of you says, as you get older everything becomes stranger and stranger as you all walk back to the place you parked the car.