Two Intersections (1980)

1. Geary & Leavenworth

I had no TV, so in the evenings,
back at my studio apartment
after doing the tourist thing
in San Francisco all day,
my mother pulled a chair into
the dark kitchenette, sat at the
window with my binoculars,
to watch the action on the
corners of Geary & Leavenworth.
There was a gay bar, a restaurant,
a small market, alcoves and
recessed doorways populated by
drunks, junkies, and hookers.
She watched a man get dragged
out of the gay bar, fighting, kicking,
screaming obscenities we could
hear even on the fourth floor
across the street. But it was the
streetwalkers who really caught
her attention, picking them out,
watching them hook up with men,
timing them, to see how long
each trick would take.
Five minutes! What could
they do in five minutes?

2. O’Farrell & Leavenworth

From the roof my mother could watch
the corners of O’Farrell & Leavenworth.
The ladies there were different.
Look, I said, at their hips and
shoulders. See anything a little off?
She didn’t at first, then she got it.
Those are men! She watched as
they slid into cars with tricks
and she’d start timing them.
Then a car screeched into the middle
of the intersection and skidded to a
shuddering halt. The passenger door
exploded and a queen leaped out,
quickly adjusting her wig, yelling
at the trick, flipping him the bird
she slammed the car door on him
as the car peeled away. My mother,
smiling, said, Guess he found out.

“At the Beach.02” by MJ Arcangelini

That Carpenterville Rooster

(for Danny Dickerson, who knew him)

He was the meanest god-damned rooster I’d ever met,
maybe the meanest rooster in all of Oregon,
and I have met no meaner critter
in the 50 years since.
One morning I was headed into the house
for my first cup of coffee.
That rooster appeared in the yard behind me,
stalking me, bold, not even pretending to sneak,
making that weird grumbling cackle he made.
Started throwing himself, claws first, wings flapping,
at the backs of my bare legs,
over and over as I tried to ignore him.
I spotted a 2×4 lying on the ground,
picked it up,
spun around,
whacked that damned little fucker
in the head,
as hard as I could,
like I was trying for the game-winning home run.
He went right over onto his side in the dust,
lay there flopping around, legs twitching,
then stopped.
Shit, I said, I’ve killed Laurie’s rooster.
She ain’t gonna be happy about that,
she liked the little fucker.
As I stood there, contemplating
how I was gonna tell her I’d killed her rooster,
the damn thing shivered,
rustled his wings,
opened his eyes,
looked straight at me,
leapt up to his feet,
shook out his feathers like a dog
coming out of the Chetco River,
turned and staggered away.
Never bothered me again,
but always kept an eye on me
like he was waiting for the
right opportunity.

“1972.SW.PA.02” by MJ Arcangelini

M.J. Arcangelini, b.1952, Pennsylvania, has been living in northern California since 1979. He began writing poetry at 11. Has published extensively in magazines and anthologies. He has done an array of things over the years to keep a roof over his head, some embarrassing or illegal and none of them truly lucrative for long. He is currently trying, unsuccessfully, to retire. He has 6 published collections, the most recent of which is PAWNING MY SINS, 2022 (Luchador Press).