Elsewhere, the sun is shining and the men
will barbecue this summer afternoon.
But here we’re chilly overcast again
and even though it’s full tonight, the moon
won’t penetrate our evening fog (its glow
will be a smudge upon our blanket sky).
The golden gate is open and the flow
is off the sea. We’re Berkeley in July.

I wish the sausages a decent grill
for someone else’s meal; I hope they plump
deservedly. I’ll dine beneath the chill
tonight on food that couldn’t run or jump,
connected to the lunar fantasy
that no one where I live tonight can see.