San Francisco

Tobin, last night we staggered into Station 40, weak from a mosh-pit battle
To open couches in rooms divided by hanging blankets
Feet on floorboards, all night creaks of lives spent passing through

Carving out life from dumpsters and dead industries
And we wake to cut oranges and apples for an anarchist named Irish
Fruit that has almost turned, though the smell tears my stomach anyway

But we leave this place with thanks, to find our own way
To take our dirty teeth and sleep-stained lips outside
To the San Francisco streets, wondering where the coffee is

I make you stop for the best graffiti
“Sanctuary city for the rich”
“Don’t blame me, I voted for Kodos”

A Levis ad turned to an anarchist call,
“Don’t work”
You take me to see Bernal Hill

So we climb through the cigarette butts
And the yellow summer dust, the weedy pink clover,
Past the joggers and dogs, you in your dog-eared khakis shoes your mother is dying to throw out

And there are blackberries covering the last ridge
And we praise our free breakfast, yell to Gavin Newsom
Find some citation to stop us from eating your berries

Below us now, the whole city is a perfect model city
And we feel the wind, the kind that always climbs
The kind you can never find on the ground