Today is not that good day, 

I do not want to die. 

I’m not a soul but a seal

in the company of seals. 

We lounge scattered in the dry fountain

white stone sculpted to look random

and roughed-up like ruins. 

A civic feature very modern. 

They never turn on the water. 

Except sometimes SFPD comes

slow and squelching clipped whoops

like a bored predator who nonetheless will

drag off those of us who will not

wake or leave our rocks.

They turn on their rainbows of water then. 

And we go sit in the brittle

cackling shadows across the way

on the low granite wall along Market- 

a black wall deepening 

grain polished cold

unlike our dry fountain of ruins

rough and warm with daylight.

(You can look forever into ice

you can

look forever and never see the bottom.)

Then the parade passes the normal statue

pavement perhaps lined with citizens. 

The Comforter has come, 

a fezzed Shriner maybe or president waving 

or Mother Teresa of Hollywood 

somebody like that. 

The water’s turned off again. 

And we return again

to bicker about where we will

spread our own greasy shadows – which coarse rock will it be

where we bed and dream

cheeks pressed against sun

stone surface of sun, 

our faces pale closing

trumpets of lily petal skin.