SOURDOUGH JAZZ

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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