Amid the skyscrapers he wanders, invisible.
Sidewalks littered with needles and forgotten lives,
Market Street buzzes, he scratches his gray beard,
The panhandlers and addicts, his fellow tribe.
Fog rolls between empty designer storefronts.
TVs flash images of wealth behind dusty glass,
He slumps on a metal grate seeking respite.
The stench of his urine mixes with trash amass.
He makes his way to Union Square, with no friendly glances,
Tourists fill the streets, while his pockets stay bare.
He heads toward the Ferry Building, hunger burning,
Hoping for leftovers or coins to fill his gut.
The pier overlooks the Bay’s chilling waters churning,
While he feels lost, stranded in life’s rut.
At Fisherman’s Wharf, tourists fill the air with cheer,
Clutching sourdough, mouths dripping with Ghirardelli chocolate,
He finds a stoop, cracks open a beer.
His throat parched, meal only a crushed cigarette.
As the sun sets on the Gate’s silhouette,
He retrieves his guitar from his backpack.
The chords ignite a flame the world tries to forget,
A voice weathered yet rising above, steadfast.
