On Christmas night
With son and daughter
Down the steps to the lobby floor
Out the glass doors to slanted Hyde Street
In the dark and the rain
Under a wide umbrella
Toward the black, infinite San Francisco Bay.
Onto Jefferson Street to Fisherman's Wharf
Among the wooden stalls
In between the yelling crab vendors
With their buttoned coats, tied scarves, and rugged hands,
Near the steam from boiling pots
Among the whiffs of salt and fish
Past the rows of scales, claws, and tentacles.
Under the murky sky
Between the wet, unsheltered tables
Through the growing puddles
Beside the street lamps reflected on the slick pavement
Past the shadows in store windows
Across a gray and vacant lot
Toward the yellow lights of Boudin Bakery.
Out from the rain
Toward the displays of platters and pottery
Into the shelves of Christmas tree and snowman-shaped breads
Over the pots of white, lumpy soups
Amid the fragrances of butter and cream
Next to the banisters lit with Christmas lights and garlands
To the cashier with ruddy cheeks.
Under the dripping sky once more
In wet socks and squeaking shoes
Past porch lights of Beach Street
Up slanted Hyde Street
Through the cold doors of the hotel
Into a room with a table
By a cozy fire
With bags of crab, clam chowder and sour dough bread.
