She wears a pink shirt the color of frosting
and leans her elbows against the hot black table
her ankles the texture of proofing sourdough
on an afternoon countertop. He holds her hand.
“Have a good one,” they squeak
to the grubby man, his
stuff in a shopping cart.
Alas, a false alarm.
The cab had turned the corner to pick
someone else up to take to the beach.
In this hand-knitted shoreline city
some are tourists and others are homeless;
and I wear dark glasses and write from
the corner, hoping no one will notice me.