In San Francisco

As I walk the bridge.
The sun setting.
Turning Alcatraz all peeled orange.

Man, this city is a beehive.
Buzzed up,
and stinging itself.

Crawling through the Mission.
Finding the beaten books.
One of my own baby.
Popping the ghost of Jack.

And I eat Chinese from a box.
To replace the English puzzle in me.

From Frisco to Kennington.
The world slides