I Miss The Strangers

Walking the town of Sausalito

I stroll the Sausalito paths, winding up, then along, and then down again, smelling the sweet cherry blossom scented air and feeling the breeze push through my hairline.

I am a man without purpose in their absence, imagining myself calm. I feel a genuine tenderness as if eating up the day’s serenity.

Looking over the waters to North Beach, the San Francisco city streets climbing away; streets where the Chronicle’s Farley treads. But I’m here thinking about Otis and sitting on his dock.

There’s no sand in Sausalito to bring my bucket and spade. It was here I loved Jerry Garcia, who didn’t when he played. I don’t know where you all are, maybe three thousand miles across the ocean, or in another state, or living on Stanyan Street.

Sausalito town is no longer thick with tourists, and the air’s fragrance is no longer filled with mint chocolate chip ice cream. No one joining the ferry to visit the city or Alcatraz.

Soon, the tourists will return. In the meantime, I’m left to cope with the prevailing beauty of the yachts on the bay, take away coffee from Cibo and Sausalito days that spread across a dozen months.

Bring me back the picnic baskets, brightly clad tourists browsing shops; even when light rain thread days together, I am a citizen, not of the world, but here in Sausalito.

Loving Tiburon, the Corte Madera Malls, Mill Valley, now desolate, wanting people, waiting life returning.

In my land. In my place. In or near some town I’ve known or lived in, beside some face or arms I’ve been inside before, my summer clothes are pressed and ready to go.

I want to see you all again…okay?