From Albany Hill

Below, the jointed buses glide by
Like matchbox cars, the whir of their wheels
Subsumed in the general hum of traffic
Over passed only by the occasional BART train
Or the horn of an Amtrak train on the bay side

Eucalyptus leaves frame the view
Their vertical strokes a perpetual reminder
Of the inevitability of tears

I patiently await my turn on the rope swing
Overlooking the fog-enfolded Golden Gate Bridge
As the distant campanile keeps time
Too far away to see with the naked eye

But I know I can always come back
Another day