From Menlo Park and Mountain View
They stalk the streets where strollers go,
Forbidding beasts with blacked out eyes
Bound for Sunset, Haight and Castro.
As dusk falls over Salesforce Tower,
And Transamerica’s tip fades,
They blend in with the growing gloom
Yet still stand out on their parades.
Beside a bougainvillea bush
Between wide Dolores and Church,
Silently these modern Molochs
Pull up to of their cargo purge.
They vomit forth a dozen men,
Each unaccompanied and young,
Not a word spoken between them
Nor glance of recognition sprung.
Their only friends matching backpacks
From which hang heavy hydro flasks,
Courtesy of the company
That pays them for their key tech tasks.
This quiet yet purposeful dance
Will recommence next morn at eight,
When partners jog to coffee shops,
Before their nail and yoga dates.
Tony Quarrington 