In the armpit of the beige point,
east of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge,
there was a camp of bums.
Of myself and
the tattooed men,
stripped to their white underwear
that wedges the pit of their genitalia,
hobbled out of their small fortresses
to check the generator.
I walked along the cliff
to the rhythm of dog barks
and gas guzzling to
power his Bunsen burner,
through the block and between wooden
branches and brittle leaves that scratch each other
when the wind blows beneath the bridge.
And along the lines of bushes I peed in,
in neighborhoods of stained canvas tents,
I rushed by to find my own spot passed the
the shrubs and in the dirt.
A suede quilt was lifted
to reveal a man sandwiched by two women with ink sleeves
and black nails,
they were in the middle of passing
a cigarette between each other,
and the man removed his head
to reveal smoke clouds
boxed in a blanket from Market Street.
In the dirt beneath the bent, brown
tree branches and amongst the noise
muffled by the shield of the tree,
I lay on my side.
The city over the mouth of the bay
radiated orange and red,
sidewalks illuminated by cars rolling
into the mouth of the bridge.
There are a few left to arrive,
with woven bags stuck to their shoulders,
and hunched over to their small steps on the cement,
leaned forward to sneak away from the
city, untainted and free.
They carry street dust on their shins and
pollinate the bay after the traffic dies down,
and they slip off down the hill,
beneath long steel shadows.
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