Rising golden
and draining warm
onto painted houses
and wooden wharfs
long streaks of sun
touch Coit’s tower
and sacred hills.
Down on Fillmore
and Columbus with class
where jazz sits
strong and grows
pulling like lines
of hungry fish
snapping at sourdough.
Across the
golden arms
and from the south
stray cats
slip from Monterey
with artichoke eyes
to Frisco streets.
Once fed
the food of soul
ears return
thirsty for beats
bringing fingers
and shoes to tap
by the bay.
Roger Singer 