 This is another poem about San Francisco, not to be monotonous or anything. This is the San Francisco that maybe the Convention Visitors Bureau might not like. It's called, San Francisco sightseeing. Man chaining himself on a scaffold, another combing his Jesus' hair, head rolling girl strapped to a stretcher, grimaced mouth of a drugged person. Pale bald man tilting and hunched, old toothless guy gumming a banana, bike rider trying not to get doored, Latinos shaking hello in the crosswalk, beardy breath soul offering blessings, guy saying he's hiding from helicopters, prone woman gesturing wildly, sidewalk sellers spreading wares, chipmunk cheeked guy lugging onions, smiler and lilac jester hat, dumpster diver singing flinging discards to the ground, lovers cuddling in a muni shelter, rain soaked man hailing a cab, driver lowering a wheelchair ramp, stooped huddled guy in a blue parka carrying a bright orange bag. Man on 19 poke bus, where's my Wall Street Journal? Damn near noon, he says, then whistles.