San Francisco Remembered

I have been wrapping my tongue around this poem for a while now (since Dave was here), and with the arrival (finally) of our San Francisco summer it tastes even more juicy. Here's your daily dose of inspiration; I have one request: read it aloud. Even better, read it aloud to someone you love.

San Francisco Remembered
by Philip Schultz

In summer the polleny light bounces off the white buildings
& you can see their spines and nerves & where the joints knot.
You've never seen such polleny light. The whole city shining
& the women wearing dresses so think you could see their wing-
tipped hips
& their tall silvery legs alone can knock your eye out.
But this isn't about women. It's about the city of blue waters
& fog so thick it wraps around your legs & leaves glistening trails
along the dark winding streets. Once I followed such a trail
& wound up beside this red-headed woman who looked up and smiled
& let me tell you you don't see smiles like that in Jersey City.
She was wearing a black raincoat with two hundred pockets
& I wanted to put my hands in each one. But forget her.
I was talking about the fog which steps up and taps your shoulder
like a panhandler who wants bus fare to a joint called The Paradise
& where else could this happen? On Sundays Golden Gate Park
is filled with young girls strolling the transplanted palms
& imported rhododendron beds. You should see the sunset
in their eyes & the sway, the proud sway of their young shoulders.
Believe me, it takes a day or two to recover. Or the trolleys clanking
down the steep hills--why you see legs floating like mirrors! Please,
Lord, please let me talk about San Francisco. How
that gorilla of a bridge twists in the ocean & the earth turns under
your feet & at any moment the whole works can crack
& slip back into the sea like a giant being kicked off his raft
& now if it's all right, I'd like to talk about women...