The whistle and whoosh of the cable
Beneath standing room only cars,
“Hallidie’s folly” still defying gravity,
Careering down Powell from Nob Hill
Before jerking round Jackson to Hyde.
The clank and strain of streetcars,
Migrants from Milan, Melbourne
And England’s Golden Mile,
Shuffling down Market before
Collecting wharf bound passengers.
The drone of distant foghorns,
Harbingers of post luncheon chill,
Sends incessant shivers through
The thin jackets and flimsy shorts
Of the unwitting Midwest visitor.
The moan of clownish sea lions,
Returning to their favoured pier
From summer migration south,
Beguiles the giggling throng
Reaching for their camera phones.
The scream of cherry-headed conures,
Venturing from their native home
On Telegraph Hill to Alamo Square,
Turn heads as dramatically as if
The Blue Angels were roaring overhead.
All these to titillate the tourists.
But there are other sounds
That prompt a harsher reaction.
The crush of plastic bottles underfoot
As supermarket trolleys scrape the ground
In search of a few cents’ pocket money;
The hair-raising honk of fire engines,
Forever redolent of “06 and “89.
The drill of piss and spray of puke
On shit-stained sidewalks
In the Tenderloin where the
Crazed cries of fentanyl addicts
Splinter the fetid night air.
All of these and more
Speak of the city.
Equally
Tony Quarrington 