Classic Poem

Everything"s shut, fireworks"
damp slamming somewhere
while I walk for hilltop vantage
to watch their milky flares,
so up 17th to nothing then
down to Market Street"s trollies,
looking for the heat. Deep fog pumped
by faraway ball park light:
the closer I come,
the darker it gets, closer now
to midnight, public transit life
kicking up its soiled skirts.
Transvestite colts, Mexican
yard guys, an almost fight
between driver and citizen,
who you calling nigger, nigger,
off at Van Ness, wasted ...
what anyway was I looking for?
How you feel? I ask
the elderly Indian gentleman
who stares at chewing gum
buttoned to his fingers.
I feel as fine as fog.
I love this land.
Tonight I"m sure to meet
a woman who wears red shoes.