In downtown San Francisco just before the Giants game, outside Wells Fargo's steelglass face -- no gargoyle nose, no cheeks to pinch, to grab, to mangle -- the stagecoach rode up, puffing dust, jiggling cinches, horses sweating, foaming, strong; mud-clumped leather smelling new; KANSAS CITY gleaming through the dust; driver feigning calm; you saw his arms and neck and knew he knew the story. Eyes working more -- so much more to caution of. Shotgun rider squinting, shotgun like a cross, the way he held it. Rode up to the steelglass face, not much familiar but the name. "Whoa team --" Manager came out, all Gucci'd up (his levis at the cleaners), almost saw, understood: "What the hell took you guys so long?"
A. Y. Tanaka