Sutro Tower San Francisco

If you had a face and arms

You would be God

Standing head and shoulders above the fog.

J. P. Murphy Playground

Across from children’s playground

Twin Peaks loom in the silence.

Symbols of motherhood.

Raw, exposed, scary.

Making you feel you haven’t given birth.

There’s a cleavage in your breast, longing in your mouth.

In this park for toddlers,

Nurse your courage to rise above your heartbreak.

Self-absorbed shoppers

Stiff and rigid as Davidson’s cross

Just a glance from grace.

George Washington High School glows at dusk,

A monument to the man: noble, restrained, solid;

The place to turn when aspiring buildings pull you no higher,

And you’re afraid to come down to earth.

Too raw to be sexual,

Twin Peaks loom like bloated breasts.

Hardly any lawn. No benches with backs.

We perch on this cold war plaza.

Cursing the riff raff.

In a row on a log

Basking in the sun

Turtles show their shell to the world.

Trilling birds penetrate fading sleepiness

Waking residents to a new dawn

Daring them to go out on a limb

Purse their lips

Make love sounds to the world.

They complained about the wind.
Willie said it isn’t hot.
They pissed and moaned and griped.
Willie told ’em: Learn to win with what you got.

Not accessible to our heart,

We ooo! and aah! over your ostentatiousness,

Wishing you were ours,

So we could entertain 35 year old cuties,

Who appreciate us for our beauty.