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I’m sorry, San Francisco, I couldn’t help it

every car sounds the same
coming up 25th
towards Dolores
It’s a kind of strain
it’s the sound of a struggle
Nobody owes us this
the view afforded
by this height
Centuries
of seismic activity
It didn’t happen
overnight

Nobody owes us this
it could all come down
tomorrow
Nobody owes us this
the richness
of this kind of town

Sorrow
where the trains can afford to go
Pleasanton and San Jose
the East Bay
another long day
for the mother in the hotel apron
for the son of Aztlan
in the battered ride

Decades of ships and cattle
Foreign and domestic finance
Old building new kinds of capital
Maker spaces
‘lectric cars
or desalinization plants

Another year out on the Playa
the left-behind town falls asleep
Nobody owes us this
brothers and sisters
it ain’t cheap

(Lyrics. Probably not done. Something about hanging out with the musical side of my family brings ‘em on. Deeply infused with Paul Simon, who I always associate with trips to the Bay Area, hills, and fog due to a couple of early family trips listening to a tape of his stuff Robert made for us.)

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