My tribute to San Francisco and Muni.

Stockton and Market

The view is blocked
by the haunches of a large woman,
the air faintly permeated with
Eau de Homeless Man.

Within the arteries of the city,
we travel (70 mph) to its extremities
to see what blood pulses there.
It does harbor life, after all.

And oh!
Even the gorgeous ones
have scabs on their knees:
maybe they're clumsy like me.

Don't scratch,
Miss Thang,
in your hurry
to remove those imperfections;
they're just as much a part of you
as the drugstore paint
on your eyelids.

Don't lean over too much,
Mister Greedy Latino,
in your quest
to navigate the fleshy landscape;
you might fall over,
drunk off your own secrets,
and make me laugh.

Mother dear,
you're blocked by
dirty denim and
lanky beauties in despair,
but maybe this is the only way
you'll notice what's wrong.
I'm in love with these tunnels,
for all I am still,
a statue personifying death.

And only in the city
will I ever admit to it,
when you cannot see my
rapturous expression,
only my hand in the other's stone grip.

Only I could make a trip to the Castro a soul-searching contemplation. How completely self-absorbed. The problem: it starts out narrative/exposition, then goes on to the whole personal interactions. Ugh. Reviews enormously appreciated, as usual.