In the Castro
Banner of colors, slung like a war flag, district defined by what’s not there, by whom, where long before dawn a man would knock on each door to ask for a place to place his faith in for the night— Brothers, we were men dreaming of greener, wetter pastures. But I have come too late. Cast-offs, kissed by more than salt, I miss the memory of you, of a haven I never knew that buttressed these streets.