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The Tower District

Updated on July 10, 2017

A few storefronts - some of them abandoned,

signs that look like they're from the fifties

when neon was fashionable.

The kind of territory where

the American Pickers could spend

a weekend and a couple of extra hours.

The kind of place where you step into

an antique store without stepping into a shop.



Cobblestone like streets without the cobblestones.

Traffic lights where there is no traffic.

Alleys going into no where lined

with weeds and plants in pots.

A genuine garden of earthly delights with

a couple of oil stains thrown in for good measure.


Today there was a bit of rain

and music from a bakery where

they once spoke English fluently.

Arty fences painted to look like walls

and walls that looked like

you could walk into them with

a selection of movie stars

from a time when they really made movies

I saw a woman cleaning off shelves today

and a man came up to me and said nothing

but looked at the window I was looking at.

She seemed pretty fierce and the

petrulli oil she was wearing filled

the atmosphere like a sauna bath

when all one really needed was a faucet -

soap is (of course) optional.


Eye of newt, frog legs and cards

with pictures of upside down people wearing colorful hats

waited inside behind silver elephants

and handkerchiefs folded like steeples.



An empty theater facade

a sign made out of cards,

a dilapidated and dingy canvas.

A restaurant that sounded like a fountain

Pizza connoisseurs leaving their specimens behind.

Notary booksellers, bankers.

More plants in pots and along the wall.

Such delicious cuisine is never seen in magazines.

Better Homes and Gardens, are on their way.

Quickly.


Alaska has nothing on you Tower.

Idaho, Montana, Wyoming and are just distant places.

Landlocked, a population seeking fresh air.

Hoagies from New York. Clocks. A theater spire,

a few thousand feet from touching the sky.



My little piece of California,

the ocean water fronts

the tropical islands or the midnight sun.

My Fresno in the winter rains.

My little square inch of paradise.

My Tower.

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