San Francisco

The streets trounce on,
entranced by some trolley,
prolly heading toward the wharf,
dwarfing the mountain roads,
towards the port,
portable people ride,
rigatoni in their hides.
There's no hiding the miner's spirit,
that last century brought pan-handlers,
now men ask for hand-me-downs
on street corners,
that trounce on,
entranced by some trolley.