San Francisco Burning

San Francisco is burning.
The Golden Gate bridge goes up
In crimson flames,
Because its gilt design
Was never gold, but
Wood, wood carved and put together
By countless of underpaid, weaker hands
Who did not have the Midas touch.

San Francisco is burning.
My brother's house is drenched in ash rain
That pours from the heavens like hellfire—
Or maybe God has pollution too,
And chose
San Francisco as Heaven's dumping ground.

San Francisco is burning.
From the forests to the fields,
From the cities to the hills,
From the earth to the sea,
There is fire, and fire will stay
So long as nobody makes an effort to stop it.
What did San Francisco ever do, besides
Sit upon a fault line?

I suppose that would be an answer in itself.
Still, San Francisco is burning,
And it is a fire
That resides within our very minds.