San Francisco, 2019

When one doth wander through the streets

Of downtown ‘Frisco, where the skyscrapers grow

And past each faceless tower I meet,

Faces of poverty, faces of woe.


Their hands are marked the blackest shade.

Their eyes, forlorn, and jaded.

Their skin, a callous bruised ugly bane

Their temple has been forsaken.


How sickly the homeless children appear

In contrast to the tech bourgeoise

Who peddle near the throng of queers

To appeal to one particular party.


But most thro’ darkened alleys I see

How the needy have lost the Russian roulette

And gathered in groups, I hear them plead

While they use the city as their toilet.


-Sara Nuila-Chae

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