Dolores Park

The palms

are psalms.

The nail salons,

manicured lawns.

This is some phase.

The park has been razed.

I miss the hip,

hours at a clip,

their dopey glazed

Dolores haze

(sorry).

I worry

about basic stuff:

my graying scruff,

Ambien addiction.

Eviction ...

— But there’s another story:

this site was once a cemetery.

In 1888,

the late

were stirred,

disinterred,

carted somewhere calm, a

nothing place called Colma.

By then the dead

prohibited

in city light.

They thought this was all right:

the dead have nothing to lose;

the dead were Jews.

Hills of Eternity, Home of Peace:

the dead were put in their place.