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Nob Hill 

A huge truck is high centered, just west
of the Fairmont. Clogging the arteries
that feed this part of the City. While Alcatraz looms,
floating in a Bay-like dream above the scene.
It's all congested, after decades of consuming
real estate pyramid schemes, collateralized
debt obligations, credit default swaps
and bloated feudal trust funds.
The City now owns us, along with all
the scattered bones and carnage. We
no longer work on Main Street and
constantly listen for the next shoe to drop.
When the police arrive and ponder the options,
we are dressing and trying to shake the sleep
that holds steadfastly to our dreams and
determination to begin another day.

How do you move something so large?

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Kirk Gothier

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