Dominoes

The tiles were not supposed to land this way

-twisting and churning

on a velveteen Goodwill couch

on the wrong side of midnight

on the wrong side of the bay,

facing a red-eyed day in the office

in the night-before clothes in which

I'd danced the night away.

It started with a vodka tonic at Sinbad's

a casual reconnection with a former colleague.

Not a bad sin, no tiles had yet slipped.

But she brought a friend

-a tipsy skydive instructor,

already half tanked on merlot.

She wore a red cape and silk Supergirl shorts

over her skintight jeans. The ladies were hungry.

For tapas and sangria at some Brazilian place

halfway across town on Haight.

Supergirl yanked up her shirt

on our way to the car

flashed her hooters at four lanes

of Embarcadero commuters.

She didn't get any strings of beads

tossed her way, just lots of hoots and honks

for her outfront topless display.

San Francisco ain't New Orleans

and we ain't no saints, besides,

it was long past Mardi Gras anyway.

After her provocative gesture,

we jumped in the car

and drove out to the Brazilian joint

for the much anticipated tapas and sangria.

They thought it would be brilliant

to cap it off with one of the legendary

martini's at Zam Zam.

So our mood and our limbs

would be properly lubed

for dancing at the Milk Bar

til 2:00 a.m.

and the last domino would fall

with a sprawl on a velveteen

Goodwill couch,

on the wrong side of midnight,

on the wrong side of the bay.