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I drove out of San Francisco that summer,
unairconditioned and exhausted,
on my way back to a place with no answers.
I saw you everywhere-
In my Little Italy coffee, swirling and oily,
among the beat-poet ghosts in Ferlinghetti's place,
flipping the pages of some magazine
with that uninspired cool.
You're faded, I told myself
in the mirror, with false satisfaction.
But when a magic 8 ball
in a Crescent City off highway diner,
boxed in by the dry , choking heat,
said NO
when I asked it about you,
I knew it spoke the truth.
Not ASK AGAIN LATER or DOUBTFUL,
just NO.
The diner was almost empty,
the water had too much lemon,
but the complimentary, pre-Iunch chips were dark and salty.
The one window in the front faced a dirt street,
the seats were sanded and simple,
the waitI'ess, glasses askew and apron streaked, was distracted,
The menu was a tom sheet of paper
and the 8 ball was straight forward,
It told me NO as I sat there alone, cupping it gently in my palms.
Some three-hours-from-the-Golden-Gate oracle-
amusement for joe or larry or john,
the cracked plastic soaked in cigarette smoke
and sweaty hands.
But it knew,
it was right.
NO.
Capital letters.
Just like that.
JOANNA HOROWITZ
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