One day in late summer in the early nineties I had lunch with my old friend Jack Hogan, ex-longshore union worker and activist of San Francisco, at a restaurant in my small Sierra town. The owner had recently bought and torn down the adjoining brick building which had been in its time a second-hand bookstore, “3Rs,” run by a puckish ex-professor. Our lunch table in the patio was right where his counter had been. Jack was married to my sister once. We all hung out in North Beach back in the fifties, but now he lives in Mexico.
This present moment
that lives on
to become
long ago
(1994)