Samson’s Jawbone (Vallejo Ferry to San Francisco, 8:30 a.m.)

From the mouth of the Napa River
The white tank farms look like molars
Stuck in a bleached jawbone

Tossed on the shore buy a passing Nazirite
As he strode up the middle of San Pablo Bay
His long hair streaming free behind him

I almost swear I can hear the Dead echo
As the hydrofoils begin to lift us above the waves
If I had my way, I would tear this old building down