Lindsay Kolasa

Fires, flares, warnings and blares…
These cities raise hairs
and increase bus fares.

Catastrophe — jeopardy —
streets sweet with burglary…
The cops run a nursery.

The mind
does intertwine
with this crime
and finds
that it pines
for the divine.

It is and always will be —
uncontrollable mystery,
drinking our history,
stirring our chemistry.

Fires, flares, warnings and blares…
Flat and broken stares;
the city says it cares.

February 2004, written while working in the Tenderloin District of SF