A Poem For Friday

You think, living in this town, no one's at war
because of how we all respect savage flowerings
for instance, or the queer biker who walks a stranger
to the curb because the wind is lit up from some strange
cellar to make us late. We think we belong
where we are better known.

I ride my bike. I ride my bike through speeds
like flavors, unzip the mile-long zipper that cinches
the street and bay together.
Fletcher names it the Bay of Take What's Left.
But I have seen mornings when all the bay could do
was give nothing but proof of gold
unwaving. Gold, going on without us.

- Michael Klein, "Proof Of Gold."