In San Francisco there is no such thing,
as the seasons winter or summer.
It’s always either fall or spring,
of course the fog’s another.
Just around dusk because they care,
the dogs are out walking their owners.
Our North Beach park is called a square,
though it’s round and full of stoners.
Every day from the front to the rear,
travelers drift like a newly formed band.
The backpacks and carriers do appear,
at the beach on the hill with no sand.
dead beat poet 