Dolores Heights sky

Matted wool rug
over
fir
floor other apartments

under us

no chairs
needed for
carnatic
singing
no tanpura either just a

guitar
plucked
by the impossible

leader her fresh-cheeked
voice
I was in a fog all weekend

floating bus
to bus not
knowing the routes the swells and relaxations of the land
almost always in the heights

my
brother sherpaing me through
his San Francisco

up once the daybreak

clouds had vacated the neighborhood

to this apartment overlooking Dolores Park

a guitar shared with hobo homo naifs plucked from life

ashramming with the carnatic ascensions
also mama’s

little baby loves shortnin bread
this was the City of the early
1970s

people sauntered the byways
in
modest
clothes
of cotton and nylon
it was before Manhattanization
sidewalk conversations had four
dimensions
possibly
more

that afternoon
we sang along
until

I saw
the sky dome through the ashram
ceiling
or was it

just from the window to Dolores Park

This poem was published in the Spring 2020 issue of the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, page 410.

Andy Oram
October 27, 2019