Apple Pie

I came to San Francisco with thirty dollars and no sweater.

I was wearing a t-shirt and a skirt, flowing cranberry in color.

Feeling like that of my ancestors who came with only the

shirt on their backs,

I came with a book of Arabic.


Headed straight for a fancy restaurant

and ordered a cup of clam chowder,

couldn't really afford the bread.


I thought I saw the man I wanted to marry,

serendipity at best.


He was with another woman and it seemed

to be their engagement party.

I cried through my apple pie.

A la mode.


Thirty dollar meal, frozen inside and out,

walking in the cold with tears flowing down my face.

That was my McHappy meal on Fisherman's wharf

the day I followed my dreams.

Gisella Perezarce
Copyright 2009