Embarcadero

That time, missing the last BART train leaving
me in the Embarcadero at night, no cab fare:
tire treads grew speakers, every window melted
into a speeding mirror, and footsteps
are never Swiss in the dark.

Even with slit eyes
I wasn't the brave cat, I didn't have fangs
or a cape and my Doc Marten's were half
a size too big to slink with stealth.

Shades and voices grew
inversely to my belly
or somewhere lower
and I was too indecisive
should I stay standing beneath the streetlamp
or scamper into a dark doorway
before they came into view:
spiked hair, four knee high boots, leather motorcycle jackets,
stepping into the light beneath the lamp
laughing at something I didn't make out
and then, stopping, two
girls with shining eyes, the shorter one
casually looping her arm round the other's waist
and inclining her face, kissing
as though nothing else mattered

not the pending bus ride across the bay bridge
or the skinny geek, or other throats echoing, or the cadence
of passing cars thump-thumping down the street,
not harsh yellow light or sharp long shadows
or tomorrow or yesterday or the tangy salty smell
barreling down Market - nothing intruded
and suddenly the dark felt warmer,
though I didn't step closer
they made the night feel safe.