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Two for San Francisco
San Fran Fog
By A. Gagliardi
Fog dissipates slowly into the morning sun,
Only to come creeping back when day is done.
Muffled foghorns announce their passage from morn to setting sun.
Though silent or seen, ever onward they come.
Tones of church bells reverberate and echo
As buildings play peek-a-boo.
Vehicles are shadows, swirling the fog with their passing.
Cable cars mutely clang for riders straining
To imagine their transportation has come,
Wondering if the day is undone.
They run for the cable cars and yearn for the morning sun,Only to come running back when day is done
By A. Gagliardi
I chose public transport
To view the ebb and flow of humanity;
To check the tide-pool of San Fran
The coming in and going out; the in and out, and in and out.
The burl-lipped homeless whose coat drips with eons of street diligence,
happy to have a seat to breath the paying-customer air,
and ride nowhere more quickly than the endless shuffle of days gone by.
Coming in and going out, and in and out, and in and out.
Aged career girls with slashed, lip-sticked mouths
who arch and flex on dancer legs that swim inside their little girl clothes;
and wear their self-possessed assurance like hats over well-manicured heads
that flaunt the coming in and going out. The in and out. The in; the out.
Tiny Chinese ancients mumble incantations
and gum invisible vittles with toothless mouths;
with walking sticks that tap a three-legged rhythm as they
shuffle on and off, going in and out, and in and out, and in and out.
Step lively, now. Sit and sway.
Stand in honor of those less fortunate and gaze sideways
at their maladies, without conscious contempt or pity.
Watch their coming in and going out. Their in and out. The in. The out.