At a sandwich shop in San Francisco
I asked to be called Travis.
I walked by the Natural History Museum
where a cave of Neolithic men
were learning to play the spoons
for all the hairy babes preening fistfuls of knotted hair.
A bear of smoke crawls over their backs,
shaped like the Rottweiler outside my window in the morning.
Police sirens float over, and he harmonizes.
ah-roo-roo-roo
but low
as if he wants me
to
hear
them
too

– Andrew Gibson