This morning's writing

A row of hotel-motels, pizza places billing themselves as the city’s best, boarded-up storefronts, fly-by-nights really, the way San Francisco does it to itself, eats itself alive. Social Distortion on the radio. You prefer just about anything to punk. The wind through the window ruffling your hair, lifting it off your shoulders for just an instant. The way your son eats an apple, tiny teeth making a jagged circle around it, a mini-path. The way we learn to do the things we do, the strange staggering steps we take into the world of becoming.