An Ambulance Driver in San Francisco.

Golden Gate.jpg

How an ambulance driver
Speeds past the traffic, in the incoming
Lane, no care in the world for the traffic. 
The man, whose heart is giving way,
His priority No 1. How the roads are now filled
With the last great hope, an ambulance,
Where so many, see their last ray of light
Their last bout of air, their last
Wish uttered in the briefest flow.

How a man, who in his 30s could do
Any sex position, is now
A man in rigor mortis, sleeping in silence.
While every night the ambulance
Driver goes to a church, and prays
For the men and women he carries,
How beautiful if they could make, guardian angels fly
Around the Golden Gate bridge, nets
In their hands, catching the bodies that jump,
Before they become evacuated of souls.
How there are no winners here;
Only desperation, the mayday moment,
The anarchy of knowing inside,
“There is an easy way out”.

How San Precario lives in the San Francisco bay area,
Inside ambulances. The last words of a man,
The confessions, to the professions of love,
The last streak of energy, the good names
That mean the world to one.
The moments that are always too soon,
To arrive. How the advent of death, is when,
The lock is opened from the outside,
Asking for a soul, to exit one’s home.
The ambulance driver, who
Drives another, down the home stretch,
Past the last turn, to the finish line.

A bridge that rests as the last resort
To a mind, holding a makeshift white flag.
How one, only needs, to be forgotten in time.
I ponder, how convenient, that the Pacific
Keeps no memory. How the rays
Of the morning sun, remain invisible in the thick fog,
While there are no lighthouses around the place,
When hope is just a liability to entertain,
The long road back, the endless
Crawl to a place and time, that
Has no riddles about it,
As “jump ship” becomes his way out.
Best be “human jetsam” than,
Sustaining a hull, until one is flotsam.

Either way, he becomes,
Driftwood, to Samsara.

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