Wriggle through the horde on Fisherman's Wharf,
then hike up Pacific Heights alone. Tired at last
of mad mansions, stair-steep hills, I long to ride
the crescent moon home--cratered hide,
ten yards bow to stern, gondola-gliding up our hills.
Muni buys the old moons cheap; refurbishes
Rusty smiles. Blood, bananapeel or old-bone pale
depending on the smog back when. No squeals,
no pothole wear. Moons need no wheels;
swing low.
It's a big tourist draw, though, the moon.
Long lines. I limp across to the west side
of this fourlane to the moonstop zone.
But I'm shouted back. "No room!" they say.
"Three-month waiting list!" That's new--
they've limited the line to two hundred (more
or less) and sold out all the tix online.
Although
Here, a "month" now just means an or-
bit round the City (Line 28),
and lots of Muni lunas run the loop; no more
(they claim) than a 13-minute wait
unless moons herd gregarious as bus, fish, deer,
those transitory nouns. Three moons?
I could hoof it home by then from here!
Resent. Resent.
Can't blame a horde that loves the town I do.
But Muni's shift excludes us fading few
local oddballs left--exhibits in the zoo.
And I fear Luna's not the lone
civic jewel pried from crown--
wrenched from right work (helping walkers,
quelling motor-plague) to milking gawkers.
Cablecars, museums, streetlife, government--
All bent. All bent.
The crescent moon descends. Tourists shuffle on.
And on. And gone.
