They crown the boulevard,
but no color-sense.
up and down the hills,
tropical bird on elephant legs.
And always, always they cheer us,
seeming to lead toward something sexy,
like a corny calendar –
a smouldering sun in the waves, ivory beach, nude moon,
paradise even, since
there’s a hint of those we dream of no matter
who we sleep with and love,
those others, made of bits and pieces of dream desire –
they wait for us at the end of the trees with their arms open
and their eyes an invitation,
though each time we dead end on Market Street
and the job downtown. No matter.
The next time we steer our cars beneath the palms
our hearts swell anyway.
Hope is necessary.
Part of the elite and proud of it,
looking down at the Venuses
in Dolores Park taking their clothes off
so the sun can brown them
in their few moments of freedom.
And that goes for the Adonises –
and on the iron heads
of a million zipping cars the trees
also gaze with the divine indifference of –
It makes no difference to them
that rats live in their heads,
like lice in the hair of school-kids, rats
that crawl up their trunks at night,
and do their ratty things in the green fronds.
They’re just not important,
nor are the parrots who pour into those fronds at times,
screaming of course. Those birds
do have mouths on them,