I am culturally spun
A yarn of thickness and arid seam
Netted back to my forefathers
Remembered in dream

Woken by the fog
On the concrete curb horizon
My eye’s trickery
Deceived even me
I saw boats setting sail
From the graffiti laden sand wall
One last voyage
Departing with the remainders
Back
Back where we could do less harm
And back
Our spines spun with yarn

I am envisioning
A King of my past
Robert the Bruce so stricken
By that heavenly mast
That bridged the beaches of Scotland
Entrenched in the sand
I am not my heritage
Though the horns call to me
I am unconnected to lions
or the cold northern breeze
I’m at home in my tavern
On the nibbled off coast
The fog in my ears
Chapped lips by the fire roast
You can have your isle
Your village your arms
I’ll stay in San Francisco
No spindle, no yarn