Alcoholic homeless dude wrote a poem for me when I lived in San Francisco. I used to go into this one cafe all the time and he'd stumble in, we'd talk for a while and this is what he recited. I can still hear it in his voice:
Seven pm, summertime.
Light footsteps to meet cooling night.
Even the pebbles cast long shadows.
When I thanked him for the poem as he left, he had no idea what I was talking about. Regardless, April is soon ending and I can't wait to sit in the seven o'clock sun and watch the shadows grow.
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