It is an expected thing--
the pigeons are many and strong-winged at this place--
They don't know that the bag-woman
who'd come daily
as seed spreading determination from her half-torn shell,
Would come no more.

"Bye, Bye Berkeley,"

Her unknown land had delivered
An alluvion overflowing on the stagnant plain.

"Bye, Bye Berkeley-- --
Hate to see you go-o."

She endured ceaseless, vague extortion.
But stayed, the river of broad expanse,
before an imperiling plateau.
Wide, firm harborage before the smashing rocks

---She disappears to her descent as he quivers
Her cart of collectibles not for this bag-legged city

---Somewhere in the unsure dark he whispers

"Bye, Bye Berkeley."