The high morning blue
Plays peek-a-boo
Behind low gray clouds—
Just another day
On San Francisco bay.
Train rumbles underground
And all fades away,
And I might be in NYC,
But no one’s wearing black.
The stoned stare
Of the Hispanic kid
Across from me,
The Asian mother
With her triplets,
The hippie vagabond
In his broad-brimmed hat:
This is where it’s at
This cold December morn—
Another world waiting
To be born,
Just barely visible, playing
Gaily behind obscuring clouds.
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