An empire of passengers

Two margaritas at 11 am.

Lines for coffee and $13 salads that ebb and flow with the stereo announcements.

Cellulitic thighs that overstep the chair and armrest's boundaries.

Thick, smoky haze over San Diego.

Outcroppings of lights along the coast like a phosphorous rash.

White, opaque fog as we cross the river; precipitating leaves on the quiet Sacramento street.

Twelve hours later, a glass of cheap white wine.

Clean bed sheets; hard pillows; sleep.