The fog comes on Walt Whitman’s cat feet and you hair the color of wisdom,
I have spent dreamless nights for I have lived the dream throughout the day,
I have lost weight, and a heart, right there at the intersection of Leitner lane
and Byrnes boulevard,
Where the Julie Andrews hills are alive with much more than the sound of
music,
Where flamingoes stand on one feet,
Where lovers hold hands out of fear of losing each other in the traffic,
Where delicate R. Strong glass flowers cohabitate with threatening heliconias
from Chile,
Where metal weaved hearts are not broken but simply incomplete,
Waiting for their other half, most often an artist masquerading as CEO to
make them perfect again,
Oh it is such fun, such fun,
San Francisco.