San Francisco,

The beat of my steps,

On those cold city blocks,

Always armed with my too-hot,

Coffee at best,

The smell of the steam,

From under the concrete earth,

To part of my of soul,

This City gave birth,

Too cold for summer,

Too hot for my mind,

Lost in a state of perpetual nostalgic trangression,

This constant obession,

With Market Street,

And the Park,

And the way I used to get lost.

In the dense sticky fog,

San Francisco Cable Car,

Rode you to the farthest Star,

And back,

To Union Square,

It was there,

That I’d learn to love the City’s soul.

Stories of America old,

In the middle of,

This great,

Western state,

Of Gold,

So these tales will always be told,

By all of who once lived and danced,

My real brothers and sisters,

In cosmopolitan soul.

San Franciscold,

I miss you so.

2.8.2013 Dilara Esengil©