Street dark, almost deserted at Pike’s Place Market, I see your shadow, Kerouac, listening to a bearded grunge guitarist with two violinists in summer tank tops and long gauze skirts—girls barefoot with black soles to their feet, hair in uncombed blond curls and waves. They play folk-rock ballads on the sidewalk in front of a closed and dark jazz café—the tourists all gone.

gull to piling
skateboard to boardwalk
sunset