Poem: Bridge hut
Bridge hut
I’ve built a high little hut
At the nape of the Golden Gate (atop the grandest red tower)
With windows to the east and west,
A bookshelf to the south, and a door.
There’s a jug of water
On the small bedside table,
A coarse rug for my boots,
And a peg for my raincoat.
The walls are northern driftwood,
The roof is tin with moss,
And the iron stove keeps
Me warm when the fog rolls below.
By day I can see to the Farallon IslandLight,
The whale spouts, and the steamships rolling.
In the night San Francisco glows with Alcatraz
And, oh, the cold, cold stars.
You’d barely notice me here
Unless you look quickly up
At just the right time
From a car speeding below (or a skiff drifting slowly by).
I shouldn’t tell you about my hut
(I shouldn’t tell a soul).
It’s just that I hope you’ll climb to me
With a piece of warm chocolate cake (and a log for the stove).
July 27, 2007