Jordan

17

“Out of Season”

I wanted San Francisco
to apologize for its dead-July chill.
But if the harbor remembers me the next year I visit,
it’ll know my outlandish hypocrisy
in complaining about the cold.
I’ve been freezing all summer.

I have no excuse like a sea in my harbor
and no compensation like fresh fish and orange bridges.
Maybe it’s my weather patterns that draw heat away,
make me susceptible
to abrupt lack
of warm curiosity in the Kraken and the depths of the ocean
which I, the imaginer,
should seasonally consider,
and make me uninterested
in laying on beaches and stepping off piers
which I, the alleged waning youth,
have heard is a trademark of the warm season.

Maybe it’s just been too cold.
I fear I’ll have to wait until next season and see if I thaw.
If the harbor remembers me,
it’ll know that the warmest dream I had
came when I was shivering on the wharf,
thinking about marrying someone,
or being someone,
who believed in the Loch Ness Monster
and ran across freezing beeches
despite San Francisco’s dead-July chill.