»In which we do not ask for his life story

For more than a decade, I have had a curious poem by John Updike hanging in my apartment (through three Chicago apartments, one in Pittsburgh, and two in San Francisco): "Sunday in Boston". Here, then, is "Sunday in San Francisco":

The dykes on bikes

-- the lemon-lime fixed-gear, a real track bike --

and the upperclass with their derailleurs and yoga mats

The aspiring hippies with patchouli drenched on their clothes

and the vapours of medicinal magic all around


The fags and their gay dogs

purposely walking down to the Park

and I smile a beery hello

from the stoop, the real catbird seat