Brown leather rests on splintered rail
Mist climbs cables, thin and pale
Fingers stitch the lining tight
Dawn breaks soft through silver light
Gloves catch fire on the bay
Gold and gray in fluid play
Each crease a map of where she's been
Salt and skin and tide within
Cable car sings steel hymn below
Fog horns answer, low and slow
She adjusts the buckle clasp
Watches gulls in widening grasp
Tourists sip from paper cups
Locals know the tide comes up
She remembers choir risers cold
Alto voice in robes of old
Gloves catch fire on the bay
Gold and gray in fluid play
Each crease a map of where she's been
Salt and skin and tide within
No anthem swells, no organ sound
Just water lapping wooden round
The hymns she knew stay in her hands
Written in the leather bands
Ferry cuts a white foam path
She calculates the aftermath
Turns toward Market, boots on brick
Gloves tucked deep where fingers fit
Gloves catch fire on the bay
Gold and gray in fluid play
Each crease a map of where she's been
Salt and skin and tide within
Salt and skin and tide within
Leather holds the morning glow
Pier fades where the gulls still go
