It is late afternoon,

and the sun is starting to fade,

trails of bright orange and silky purple

splash across the sky of the bay

like oil paint scattered
over a faded blue canvas.

Tretuz sits alone

in the small apartment

in the heart of the Mission district

and looks around him once again,

trying to recognize where he is

and how he came to be here.

There is noise coming from outside,

cars honking,

people calling out to each other

in a blurred mix of Spanish and English,

and the echo of a salsa piano montuno

manages the jump across the street

from its origin in a small boombox

in the depths of a dark garage.

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