Sitting on the Sidewalk

for Buckwild <3

Buckwild told me 
that it is illegal to sit 
on the sidewalk in San Francisco.
He delivers this news as true as concrete
whilst conducting a melodic and sly-waltz. 
on the Masonic Street sidewalk,
as a congregation of dancers,
unfurls and erupts
where they are forbidden
to bend their knees
and fold their ankles
as they see fit.

I suppose the mayor had wanted to prevent
suspicious smoke sessions from 
entangling with tourists but the 
nature of smoke is to rise and disperse
and we know how to do drugs standing up. 

In the sidewalk
specks of glitter speak
fleeting messages of
it’s composition of rock, sand, and water,
like the carrots at the supermarket
straining to signal
their true constitution,
through cellophane, white light,
And bad music.

It is illegal 
to sit on the sidewalk in San Francisco,
but little kids always do things they want to do
in places where they aren’t supposed to do them. 
unearth underground kingdoms beneath the dinner table,
discover clouds hiding in a murky puddle,
and splash the sky all over their overalls,
slam onto the sofa in whatever contortion 
they happen to form
and watch tons of teensy dust particles
rise to heights they’ve never reached.

Sitting on the sidewalk,
I watch a little girl
leap on and off cafe chairs 
and when her dad tells her she can fly,
she says, “No, I can float.”
And she sustains her air-time long enough
to clasp the atmosphere with her toes.
And when she crashes into the metal chair
headfirst,
she bellows and wails,
and I only cry a little,
because much like sitting,
I know floating is hard to get away with. 

On the evening of the same day 
Buckwild told me that it is illegal 
to sit on the sidewalk in San Francisco
A concert hall security guard
approaches me and my friends 
at intermission 
because we are sitting on the floor.
She asks if we're ok
and when we say yes, 
she tells us that “sitting is a sign of distress”,
and I wonder,
how might we signify rest?
And what exists in stillness 
they would prefer us not to know?

I ask Buckwild
where his name came from.
He tells me he used to sell drugs,
but now he sells socks,
so I can call him J.R now if I want.
No, he is not hiding any longer. 
This is the floor he was born for.