Tomorrows whirl along, they promenade
like pages ripped from too-brief years, before
their soft-shoe asphalt syncopations fade
down Geary to the Van Ness corridor.
The beats in Fillmore boom-boom, saxophones
uncurl and snake around a fog of nights.
And yesterdays? Don’t think about them—gone.
Like endless hours spent browsing City Lights.
Once, hungry fire raged through the Tenderloin.
The dead shipped south to Colma, out of sight.
Once, bitter Tong-blood soaked the urban groin,
and Carol’s boobs glared proud in neon light.
But now who thinks of Sutro’s on the sand,
or Playland at the Beach, or Winterland?