Dog Path at Fort Funston, San Francisco

By Abby Caplin

This modern wooden deck, hanging

over steel blue water,

will turn to driftwood

like those WWII bunkers,

hunkered down the path,

blood-rusting in fits of

Golden Gate Bridge International

Orange, like the last bank swallows,

nesting below in sandstone.

The ocean drums, a goatskin tar

to white noise slicing

the sky from SFO.


Lexie’s breath stinks like dog,

which she is, gray and chesty.

Her black nails quickly rip a hole

in my journal. She wants to know

what I’m doing here,

dogless. Her owner

pushes an empty stroller,

the baby strapped to her back.

Then they are gone,

exploring the carpet of

highway ice plant,

its bitter figs.


We are all confused.



Abby Caplin’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Adanna, The Healing Muse, Night Train, OxMag, The Permanente Journal, Poetica, Tikkun, and several anthologies. She is a physician and practices Mind-Body medicine in San Francisco.

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