As soft and warm as breath, the morning
winds itself up—trucks rumble
down the street, cargo intact
all is sunlight, and the bright green leaves
of midsummer. Along with the lattes
and the bleary eyes, there is a fellowship
of getting things done. Some will
of course, make things happen and some
will just get through the day—
at the end of it, the streets radiate
tired disgruntled waves of heat
coupes fight their way home
trucks rattle empty—yes we
got things done; the planet is warmer
and we have more, we are drowning
in the America of more. But I know
what to do about it—in the warm
summer evening, I’ll hie down to
San Quentin beach and slide in
to the cool, under the rushing bridge
where the city gleams like a fairy gem
in the watery distance.