i love to walk

through the chinese markets

in north beach

the produce in crates

outside the open store fronts

rich with names unfamiliar to me

and the language which i hear

which i cannot understand

gives me anonymity, that, and my appearance

i am seemingly invisible

~~~

no one looks at me

no one speaks to me

the transition from my familiar world

a block or two away, into this other world

where i assume the dialog is different, frees me

my sadder, lonelier thoughts

are in abeyance

i imagine living here

~~~

the colors are muted

simply because they are natural

they are the colors of the produce

and the buildings, mostly painted brick

are painted in dull colors, this isn't chinatown

there are no tourists here

no menus written in english, no garish gift stores 

~~~

terri likes it here

she is the better cook

she picks out veggies 

that i wouldn't have the nerve to buy

she is gregarious

and manages to make conversation

where i stand silent

but i love it here, and come by myself

for the sensory experience 

~~~

an old man is coughing, covering his mouth

the sidewalk is not crowded.

he makes his way to the corner

leans over a trash can and spits

recovers himself and walks on

singles and couples come after work 

choosing meats and produce for dinner

so it seems to me

this is a good side of america

it is a community, and though i am not welcomed

i am not unwelcome

when i cross the threshold

back to the world of the hungry i and city lights and peet's

i am no less anonymous, but it is my world

though i feel less like myself