Market Street, San Francisco

Is where you can see
what you put away
during all those years of car pools
and bad bosses
and spindly grass
that needed mowing.

The wild driving drum beat siren
jerking you like a dizzy string puppet,
Is here with the dog
who wanted more of your time,
the shop lifter kid in the hoodie,
the guy who hasn’t eaten in days,
and all the people you saw
out of the corner of your eye
and walked by.

They are all here
in the moving painting
that rolls by
while you shop
for that right pair of jeans.

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