Born in San Francisco

I can’t say I know you
Like the back of my hand
But I know what the back
Of a hand feels like

I keep that feeling
In the back of my mind,
Close like a pimple out of
Reach from the scrape of a nail

I don’t know all
Your cracks, crevices
Or fault lines

But you are intimately
Familiar with
Mine.

I couldn’t tell you who invented
The cable car or sour dough
Bread or what the seats in
Seal’s Stadium felt like

On the back of my hand I
Scribble the phone number of
A guy I ran into the other day

I hadn’t seen him in years

Told him I’d call him
But when I got home the
Number had faded into my
Skin and when I dialed the number
It was disconnected

I can’t say I know every street,
Every corner, every hill that is
Carved, painted on your face

I don’t know every face or
Every place that has passed
Through the eyes of a child in
This piece of sky but I have felt
The rain as it escaped and found
My skin

I can’t say I know you
Like the back of my
Hand

But I can say I was
Born from your
Womb, a tunnel
Going one way
With lights going opposite

For whatever
That’s worth

© 2015 Tony Robles

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