Twenty-five short years ago
the Golden Gate rocked to and fro
as San Franciscans weighed their nerves
upon the Richter scale.
At 5:04 the clocks stood still
as cable cars crawled up Nob Hill,
their passengers quite unaware
of what had just transpired.
At Candlestick the wick went out.
The Bay Bridge Series was in doubt.
Whose fault it was could not be hid
and what a fault it was.
The San Andreas was to blame,
a fault whose power can't be tamed.
A fault whose shadow lingers still
and will not go away.
The Big One's waiting in the wings.
The day will come when sorrow sings
a mournful dirge in light of what
lies flattened on the ground.