Because they taste like sex, those fish tacos
and Coronas in longneck bottles with lime,
we ordered them often, eating on the slick
outdoor deck, while listening to the fog
horn on the wharf of Pier 39, where the seals gather
to watch the tourists in Bermuda shorts
and linen shirts softened with spray from the docks
where the boats beat against each other
in the swill. We drank a toast
to the homeless with their signs saying:
we won’t lie, we need money for beer.
Honesty as refreshing as the salt water,
as tantalizing as the sound of traffic
and faint mariachi music singing me to sleep at night;
the birds of paradise that filled the vase in the dining room,
and the air, like a hot towel from the dryer,
against my naked skin. This is nostalgia:
the sandy grit under my nails.