| I live on a street with van Gogh's stars |
| that jump over apartment buildings, |
| over Coit Tower. |
| They write yellow on midnight, |
| they howl. |
| Bob Kaufman was a Buddha |
| beneath these stars. |
| |
| I live on a dreaming street, |
| where the red confetti of firecrackers |
| mix with blossoms piling in the gutters, |
| and children shout my name, |
| and slam their windows shut. |
| |
| I live on a street of hills, |
| of Brazilian pizza drivers, |
| of French Italian bread baking smells |
| floating through my window at 2:00 in the morning. |
| I live with a flock of squawking parrots. |
| |
| Sometimes I love my street, |
| sometimes I hate it. |
| |
| I live where a homeless woman |
| knows the pigeons by name, |
| mothers check the sandbox for syringes |
| before letting their toddlers play, |
| jazz drools near the corners |
| of broken furniture and garbage, |
| gray is hung | |
| | from the buildings at dawn |
|
| as kids roll their backpacks to school. |
| |
| My street is an impulse, |
| a series of shiny dots, |
| of languages brought together |
| without definite plans. |
| |
| I live the way all humans live, |
| on a street | |
| | that bleeds from my heart. |
|
| |
| —Sally Doyle |
