While we were finishing last night’s pizza –
waiting on the quay for the tour to start –
a fog arrived from the Pacific.
We had left Fisherman’s Wharf in full sun –
the same sun that had peeled my forehead
drinking merlot al fresco at a wine bar
in Sausalito the day before.
I thought acerbically of the remark
Mark Twain, it is said, never made
about the coldest winter he had known
being a summer in San Francisco.