crawling

walking for
blocks down K street, mounds of
leaves under our feet, boots
clacking, arm in arm, hat on head,
green and red decorations with
gold, a big band, cold air, drizzling
rain. wooden sidewalks, saloons,
a bright yellow bridge.
snapping photos with the old canon.
sittin' just four at the table
with mom and pop's food.
watching home videos, laughing
at my dad's outfits.
"fruka" -
my word for music.
waking up in my parent's
bed, 7am, looking out at
steel blue sky and crawling
tree branches, bare.
bouncing my nephew on
my knee, knowing he's
related to me. making no
plans, sleeping on the
couch, sleeping in my old
room. my dad's showing me
his jazz records, sipping
beaujolais.
this is where he usually sits,
alone, reclined and closed eyes,
soaking in the trumpets,
the bass, the movement and
woes, the swell, the speed,
the slow romance of it all.
now with company, talking
of the iliad, the bronte
sisters, harper lee, miles
davis and the birth of cool.
where he usually sits, alone.

we are feeling welcome,
making jokes, telling old
stories and kissing
cheeks. 1944 photos
of jean and charlie freeland
at bimbo's lounge, san
francisco, 1075 columbus
avenue, roaming around
north beach like us.
being connected and
calm.

we are feeling welcome, yes.
with our own kin and our not.
being autumnal of season,
trying not to try too hard,
walking for blocks,
kissing cheeks,
being calm and connected.