Work in progress, part of something I intend to call “A San Francisco Odyssey” The Golden Gate Is a Metaphor The visitors said, We have come to seek the Golden Gate To climb Lincoln Boulevard On rented Blazing Saddles Filling our lungs with eucalyptus, To brave the wind, the fog, and the foghorn, The real cyclists and the other tourists zigzagging around us As we take pictures Of boats sailing underneath Coming for the promised gold. For the bridge isn’t, as promised, Golden, it is the Gate that is An opening, a passage Allowing the gold seekers to come and go. Now of course, they fly over it The captain tells them “there it is, folks” And they twist their stiffened necks To see the bridge Perhaps to compare it with a postcard, or a Ghirardelli chocolate wrapping, A view they had before Of it next to a cable car and Alcatraz And if their view were really warped Next to palm trees and snow. How many photographs, and paintings, How many imprints on retinas, …