truth

did we create san francisco, or are we the creation?

when i walk down your back

wide-eyed, seeking comfort from

your scars, colors, salty-spicy perfume

then you are mother of mothers

no saint, but the goddess of this city

like Athens to Athena, though less remote

nagging  us “faster” with a harsh wind

cradling creativity for generations

once thought barren

by a man,

but there was always life in the dunes

defying expectations, you pull your little family

anarchists, geeks, hippies, immigrants, socialites

humor us,  you give undying love

whatever the rest of the country  thinks

but when, laden with rich soil bags

my feet take your temperature

through my warm soles

too warm, “oh honey,”

you are our child

we draw silly things -murals, grafitti

on your little arms

to amuse you, to honor

we swaddle you in velvet, rags, and tie-dye

each generation of your citizens

rebirths you

leaving traces of our conflicts, ideals, food

whispering our poetry in your ears

your eyes are wise but innocent

others see weirdos, freaks, degradation, ambominations

you giggle and pull at our fingers