San Francisco
by Orlando N. Bonilla
A golden coin
Is hanging from your roof.
Rolling automobiles
Scratch the air of your belly,
While the tip-toeing buildings
Gaze toward the sky,
And two long fingers
Stretch across the bay.
Flames of people emerge
From the semaphores,
Biting the ground
With each step.
At night,
Your neon signs
And window lights
Crazily break the darkness,
And the whispering wind
Blows your face.
Your nightclubs,
Dressed in gaiety,
Adorn themselves
With naked thighs
And almost bare torsos,
While in the docks,
The lazy ships
Sing their fog song.
Forum Literary Magazine 