Sinbad's

You don't see many under forties at Sinbad's.

It hasn't changed since the White House staff

were tootin' coke and sporting bushy sideburns

and bells were something that referred to pant legs

or folks in robes who chanted at the airport.

The food is mediocre

and the soundtrack still plays

a lot of Karen Carpenter.

(not that she was a bad singer)

The port of San Francisco is evicting them.

six weeks, six months, however long it takes,

they're done.

I’ve been there perhaps

a dozen times in a dozen years,

so I popped in for one last bourbon

on the rocks and a gaze through

the window behind the bar.

What a view....

the Bay Bridge and Yerba Buena Island,

the PanAm China Clipper terminal on Treasure Island,

container ships on their way to Oakland.

The Alameda ferry riders queue up right outside.

That's why Sinbad's has to go,

a new berth is needed for the ferries.

I used to drop in once in awhile,

if I had a long wait for the boat to Marin.

It got me into trouble once:

I was going to meet a former colleague

for a cocktail and a chat before

I caught the Larkspur ferry.

Just for an hour I thought.

But she brought along an interesting friend

visiting from somewhere up north,

a sexy sky diving instructor who'd

been drinking merlot since mid-afternoon.

Interesting, really interesting. And friendly....

She was wearing a Supergirl cape

and a pair of men's red underwear

on the outside of her jeans.

She needed something to eat something,

so we left to find some better fare

than Sinbad's had to offer.

As we crossed the Embarcadero

jammed with evening traffic,

Ms interesting, friendly skydiver

lifted up her shirt and flashed the commuters.

A lot of enthusiastic hoots and horns ensued

until my friend told her this isn't Mardi Gras

you aren't going to get any beads,

pull your shirt down.

We went for tapas and sangria

at this Spanish place out on Haight.

The skydiver said to my friend

"let's go to the lady's room and make out"

Then she put her hand on my back

and whispered in my ear,

“So what’s your story?”

She didn’t wait for whatever

stammering blather I attempted.

Then they said it was mandatory

that we sip some of the legendary

martinis at Zam Zam’s lounge.

I said I gotta go, if I don't leave right now

I’ll never make the last ferry. My former colleague said

Call your wife and tell her you've been kidnapped.

I said I don't have a cell phone.

So she says I’ll do it, what's your number

I’m gonna call her and tell her

that we insist on taking you dancing

and you can crash at my place.

So we did. I hadn't been out dancing

in years and it was fun. Some trendy place

called the Milk Bar where I felt a little

fifty-three-year-oldish out of place,

but the d.j. was mixing Motown on top of synth

and drum machine and it was hypnotic.

I was dancing with two women

and whatever price there would be to pay

tomorrow, I didn't care.

We danced until the club closed

and I slept on her couch in Oakland

and nothing untoward happened

....except I didn't make it home

until the next day.

But that was bad enough,

the cracks were growing wider,

and then I began to write.