Poem: My City

Market street is packed with people.
Weaving through them leisurely,
a head taller than most.

They are like so many ghosts to me;
Insubstantial and transitory.

San Francisco is My City,
born both and raised,
to always return.
My City is the closest thing I've had
to a Home.
Still getting a thrill
when returning from trips,
over the bridge,
first sight of the Ferry Building.

Weaving through China Town,
packed with people,
and I am alone.

Almost every corner holds memories.
Everywhere I have crapped,
performing embarrassingly.
My City forgives me.
With secret spots
only I seem to know.
My City rewards me with
water fountains, parks,
libraries, bathrooms,
coffee shops, cheap food,
and cheaper clothes.

Everything you could want is here.
It has to want you to find it, though.
Invitation Only.
Very Hush-Hush.
Exclusive in the Extreme.
My City is discriminating in it's Lovers,
though I'm by no means it's only.

As it changes and grows,
so do I;
Together.