Stuck in traffic is the best way to appreciate it.
Those who walk stop to take pictures of Alcatraz,
And Angel Island and the hillsides crowded with pastel houses.
But they don’t stop for the bridge. The wind is too cold.
In the car, you’re stuck with it.
You come face to face with it.
You feel the wind shake it,
And the weight of cars strain it.
You look left, going north,
And there’s nothing but blue,
Perhaps a container ship bound for China.
You look right, toward the view,
But find it blocked
By tourists capturing sights on phone cameras.
You look up and it hits you.
The orange steel towers contrast the blue sky.
The mighty harp of suspension cables
Cries out to be stroked
By some industrial giant of the past.
You notice, on the west side, a small official-looking
Vehicle - or is it a clown car? -
That shuttles the two dudes who paint the damn thing.
It takes them a year.
Then they paint it again,
Like the lamp lighter in Le Petit Prince,
Trapped in their work,
Trapped like me in traffic,
Between the Presidio and the headlands,
A prisoner of the staggering works of man
And the miraculous beauty
Of God’s creation.