Every Weekend

I don't know where I live anymore. In a condo
by Leona Canyon or in your apartment
through the Webster Tube in Alameda?

Every weekend I climb past tomato sandwiches
tossed on your staircase, a high-tide apartment building
shoring up families with views of storm drains
weeping hot tears into the Pacific
then over to a part of town where drug lords
visit funeral parlors with loaded guns.

"Be Stupid," reads a t-shirt in San Francisco.
White letters on a black background, a call
to Fools everywhere.

Where do I belong? Tasting your cypress lips,
winding my fingers through your hand that anchors my love.