You say now’s the time
to squeeze San Francisco
out of our 40-year-old selves.
If our future heartbeats
pump inside a suburban address,
will we still love each other
before mirrors that heave back
unknown reflections?
Will we ever return
to our Inner Richmond neighborhood?
We must shamble down Geary
as aliens who swallow Nizario’s Pizza.
You must know
we’ll no longer know the special shade
of the Redwood Grove Garden
that wraps around
our weekend bodies.
If only San Francisco darkness had hands,
they could build a 94118-zip-code home
for you, me, and the unborn life you carry.
Our teachers’ paychecks just aren’t enough.
At our 4th and Clement apartment,
I just installed a new doorbell.
The chime vibrates a welcome
so anyone is invited
to feel my breath and pulse and voice.