To Sleep with No Bed

In the armpit of the beige point,

east of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge,

there was a camp of bums.

Of myself and

the tattooed men,

stripped to their white underwear

that wedges the pit of their genitalia,

hobbled out of their small fortresses

to check the generator.

I walked along the cliff

to the rhythm of dog barks

and gas guzzling to

power his Bunsen burner,

through the block and between wooden

branches and brittle leaves that scratch each other

when the wind blows beneath the bridge.

And along the lines of bushes I peed in,

in neighborhoods of stained canvas tents,

I rushed by to find my own spot passed the

the shrubs and in the dirt.

A suede quilt was lifted

to reveal a man sandwiched by two women with ink sleeves

and black nails,

they were in the middle of passing

a cigarette between each other,

and the man removed his head

to reveal smoke clouds

boxed in a blanket from Market Street.

In the dirt beneath the bent, brown

tree branches and amongst the noise

muffled by the shield of the tree,

I lay on my side.

The city over the mouth of the bay

radiated orange and red,

sidewalks illuminated by cars rolling

into the mouth of the bridge.

There are a few left to arrive,

with woven bags stuck to their shoulders,

and hunched over to their small steps on the cement,

leaned forward to sneak away from the

city, untainted and free.

They carry street dust on their shins and

pollinate the bay after the traffic dies down,

and they slip off down the hill,

beneath long steel shadows.