Waldheim
We were
looking for Aunt Hannah
without the map
designating each grave,
went east, too far east
along a creek,
the headstones
became thin white crosses,
some leaning rickety,
some straight up,
sticks together in one plot.
No names, or dates,
just the workers who built (what?)
A railroad?
A house?
A group of Irish workers
in a corner of Waldheim,
down along the creek,
with birds flying overhead,
and mud on our shoes.
Potrero/Mission
The neighborhood smells like bread.
Passing the bakery, the yeast rising,
Around the corner, the brewery is gone
where the hops bubbled.
The aging Victorians
with crumbling front porches
still line Potrero flatlands
amid the printing and car repair shops.
The rolling presses emanate thick inky odors
across from Indian curry lunch buffets.
You can hear the voices
of the old ball park
next to the Double Play bar.
Further south along the Bay and years before,
Chinese fished in coves,
and pigs were butchered.
Looking up twards the hill,
you can see
General Hospital's laundry steam,
a constant stream pouring into the clouds,
or a full moon
rising into the night,
or disappearing behind
an eclipse.