passing through

let me tell you about San Francisco
for just the hairsbreadth of a missed moment
not because it matters
because nothing matters

Lombard Street told me how life is always winding down
she was right of course,
but I hated her for that
cold crooked spilled out grin.

The bridge was silent there about the mist
he agreed, I think
as the last men of Alcatraz have died
leaving only the shell of bad memories to tour.

Upon the Fisherman's Wharf, by pier 37,
a woman with long blond hair and four inch stillettos
smirked as she winked,
"I have a penis," she whispered.

Later, I stood on the walkway at Crissy Field
remembering good Kung Pau chicken
and iced cold water
as the waves held the bass line on the sand

She wailed as I left her,
but that bitch never was my town