Battery St. ramble

A year ago, I searched for an unlined notebook in this stationary store around the corner from work.  The shelves were stacked with lines alone, sharp edged and flossy thin.  A moment after briefly contemplating the cut of their page, chin in fingers, I shouldered my way to the nearest exit and felt glass panes firmly push me into the sidewalk.  A voice called to me and when I turned about brown hands handed me these:  a helmet, sunglasses, holy gloves.  I thought I caught a muttered thanks well up from my tightened throat.  I thought I could spring into action then and make myself a stranger's penny tithe.  The thought trailed to another seeker's mind.  I raised my brow and saw two women work together above the store. I fine tuned my helmet straps below the ears.

Of supreme import here was looking up that morning and making sure these lines connected, the forms yielded space, and their weight did not tip the scales outside the frame.  Now I understand the issues being contested at every single moment above our heads as well ramble down Battery or Sansome.  Will I however hide behind a tree and watch the man across the street photograph me?  If I raise my chin and hold my gaze up toward this morning's blue sky, nothing but this will happen.

Battery St. runs one way, south toward the Bridge.  In the morning, traffic is every light because cars drive into San Francisco.  They steer their way off ramps and fill parking lots from top to bottom.  Taxi cabs swing to and fro, from grid to grid, climbing the hills and coasting on their brakes.  Once I thought myself nifty with Humidor smoke in my satchel.

Looking north on Battery St.  as traffic comes onto you one way.  I had to get my bearings realigned at this moment, find the corners, form a sign with my eyes.  All to often, one hopes for heads, but has to settle for tails.  It's all part of the game, you must remind yourself every now and then.  If you do forget, as I did that day, the city streets will snap you out of it, or back into it.