On the glassed-in back porch
of a friend’s house on Folsom,
I slept three weeks on a heap
of patterned wool blankets,
a large Ziploc of granola
and a jar of pistachios on the sill.
I woke to bus traffic
in the floorboards and sun
on my face, drank thin coffee
and scoured the listings
for a studio someplace more
possible. Each day nothing
and each day I paced
the bright narrow side streets
with my friend, who was taking
time off and who was an expert
in digital currencies.
I’d tell him about the collapse
of my marriage and he’d tell me
about the distant servers
that mine electronic coins
by solving complex equations.
The specialized equipment
required for this kind of work.
I would ask him basic questions
and he would answer patiently:
The coins are encrypted code.
The code is the currency. Value
is determined by speculation.
Those days, every detail
had the glimmer of potential
cruelty: hot-pink curtain
caught in a shut window,
drainpipe signed KING BABY
in white-out pen, paper bag
of potatoes rotting in the trunk
of the car I borrowed to retrieve
a crate of books from storage.
I called a man about a place
above a Thai restaurant and lied
about how much I make in a year.
He was from Pittsburgh. We talked
about rain. He said he’d call later
to tell me if I got it. On another walk
I asked my friend more questions.
Will it replace cash? Yes.
Is it untraceable? Yes. What happens
when they run out of equations?
A bus hummed past, skimming
the lowest branches of the ficus tree
giving us shade. It’s not like that,
he said. It could go on forever.