Tenderloin to Mission

Stern pavement, the hard
flat slap, footstep of a Converse high top.

Smattering of voices,
ghetto plainsong.  Old men

sit on milk crates and play
chess.  They gossip, a feminine edge.

A pigeon scurries to the curb,
pecks at crumbs

spread by a 'do rag-sporting mama-san.
She trucks her bottles and cans

through this town scoured of ghosts,
where history holds its breath in unseen rooms

or sometimes waves from rooftops
to an unfortunate few.

Rags and Boxes

The sky these days seems small,
a coffin lid from the inside --

washed blue muslin lining.  This town,
a scrimshaw drawn on ivory

the hue of stale dishwater.  Men,
beautiful men, once thronged these streets.

I had been one of them.  Sudden,
the way today occurred, when

I realized I know what's under
every stone -- stones whose creases echo

the lines framing my eyes.  Lily Marlene
on my headphones.  An old dog sighs.

Suburbia 2

Iridescent oil slick
prism shatters bright
pink from one
facet on the drive
dandelions lie
among clumps
of crab grass
spider bites
toddlers' knees
rope on the swing
frayed, may break
when the sun dies
eaten by the moon
lunch time barbeque
June, with whom
you slept (your wife
still pretends not to know)
adjusts her mirrored specs
anticipating a stellar show

Shadows

Who are they,
the brittle shells

peeping from under cars?
They play

like children.  They leap
from tree to tree

and dance acrobatically just past
the ivy-clad meridian.  May

they ever draw near
enough for me

to see friends
among their masks,

the eyes that glow
with too-quick life?

Polemic

Mammon smells green:
perfume of cash

on the air.  Retail
or mausoleum?

The white, mostly marble
stretch of Grant Street

thronged with sleek
livestock, prize

heifers hauling bags
from Armani, Joe's

Jeans.  I bite the hand
of a big one.

She lows and kicks me off,
then with her phone sells

her stock in British Petroleum
at a loss.

Lizard

Flicker, dart
red stripe, brown
scale and claw.

From shade to sun
then return.
The eye, stern

and glossy black.
Lipless head, turn
this way and that.

A spider dies
snatched off a star thistle
whose spines tell no lies.

Telegraph Hill

A banana tree, odd to see
in this clammy town.

It overhangs the rickety
Filbert steps:

wet wood rambling down
towards Julius Castle --

closed for now -- recently
bought, I think

by some old coot; he must have wooed
his prom date there.

Her shoulders glowed white
in a mink stole.

A drink and a dance.  The lily corsage
wilted decades ago.