Still Here
The bay is still here.
The trees are still here.
The grass and weeds are still here.
Flowering succulents are still here.
Dog poop left on the ground is still here.
Birds, chirping, tweeting, singing, flying low over the water, diving for fish, are still here.
Cars parked nearby are still here.
Radios playing loud are still here.
Tobacco is still here.
Pot is still here.
The bridges are still here.
Traffic moving fast and slow is still here.
BART sounds from the distance are still here.
The Pyramid tower is still here.
Sail boats are still here.
The breeze is still here.
Train horns are still here.
Cargo ships are still here.
The cranes that may or may not have inspired the Imperial Walkers, still here.
Alcatraz Island, still here, with its fleet of ferries to take you there.
Runners and joggers, still here, wearing earbuds.
Voices, still here, talking politics, food, work, play, nonsense.
Benches, still here, butts upon them, face staring at the water, bridges, birds.
Hip hop, still here.
Blues, still here.
R&B, still here.
Rock, still here.
My favorite jazz station playing the illest sides, old and new, still here.
Blue skies and clouds, still here.
Stars, even when veiled by the sun’s brilliance, still here.
Kayakers on the water, paddling, their silhouettes like swans in formation, still here.
Still here! The maintenance workers cleaning the public john.
Still here! The public john, better than the bush.
Still here! The remnants of illegal campfires created by the homeless.
Still here! The homeless, their numbers ever rising, their “otherness” never so great as imagined.
Still here! The prairie dogs, peeking up from their holes, sniffing the air, sensing danger in the making.
And I’m still here, broken,
And I’m still here, repaired,
And I’m still here, tempered harder than a forger’s best steel,
And I’m still here, ready.
{Ed. note: I wrote this a few days after the election, November 2016, a means to work out the funk I was in (and am still in).}
© 2017, gar. All rights reserved.