Tower-topped, quarry-scarred, road-cut little mountain climbs amid San Francisco hills.
Gopher-pitted, coyote-prowled, raptor romanced, off-leash dog paradise.

Joggers pass babies in snuggly carriers, ball throwers raise canine leaps.
Wind waves grasses, calls kite flyers. Labyrinth draws seekers, sunset soothes.
Park, hang out, make out; blow a joint; claim sanctuary on Bernal Hill,
Southeast corner Bay city, ‘tween Cesar Chavez, Bayshore, 280, Mission.

Bernal bedrock anchors safe sleep home: cast iron pans, enameled pots;
Mom’s Kitchen Aide mixer for Devil’s Food, mocha-iced, birthday candle bearers.
Her grease prints blur soup, pie recipes. She over my shoulder when I cook them.
Remember kid licking her cake batter: beaters, bowl and rubber spatula.

Hand-me down footstool fronts Mother-in-law’s red couch.
Navaho rug, oil paintings, Mom’s sculpture, photos decorate.
Boxed Legos, transformers, action figures sleep under stairs,
Bats, balls and mitts, tents, sleeping bags and kayaks in basement below,
Waiting for new players.

Made babies, raised them here. Thousands of dinners, round oak table.
Son’s girlfriends slept over, stayed for months.
Cancer and death in this house too.

Rooms await new claimants.

Please come in, take off your shoes. I’ll light a fire.