I love you for your summers, San Francisco The ones that start September-time, or if It’s hot that year, late August, when they leave The windows open far enough to hear Men beating planks with hammers, and the taste Of iron hot on wood wafts just behind and curls Around the drapes
And when you’re feeling bashful, you put on Your beautifulest dress: a puffy white piece with A shawl that trails through all your streets And coats the cigarette butts lining Geary With the sheen of something wonderful
Sometimes a woman stood below our window And said, “How beautiful!” regarding what I thought was just the tapping Of a tired, old Wurlitzer
And when we thought it Imprudent to stay indoors any longer We gulped the seaweed breezes and we tried Your water till our ankles And your hills until our hearts Were full enough to live another day.
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