and the bus windows fogged by human heat became a part of this child, and the wooden roof rot recliner

for summertime phone calls, and the crying neighbor woman’s sticky mascara,

and the hot asphalt became a part of him…the sideways light on the trees fifteen before dark, and the tract

            house mazes at night, and the hidden playground underground,

and the blooming jasmine over strangers’ fences…invisible barking dogs…and burnt bike wheel tracks,

            and glittered marsh gorgeous and toxic,

and cherry tree lined freeway, and the bitter fruit afterward…and the purple grateful palms…and the

            neighbor’s unbloomed roses;





and the car rides to Elsewhere, and the urban self-sufficience envy,

and the free tickets from the out of town hero…and the wild-haired directors pacing preshow

            lobbies…and the squirming audience beer-in-fist…and the blush-stained sidelit Cordelias…and

            the honest snickers clearing the building into the cold lot still and quiet,

and all the changes of city and country wherever she went.



The red couch, the red rug, the blue kitchen, the dying dog,
The star trek memorabilia, and the dusty book garage, and the overcooked rice leftover…

the weight of guilt, the thought if after all we deserve every ounce,

the streets themselves, and the midnight three block nightmare runs to safeway…and the barbeque smell from not-my-house,

and the ****** children stumbling to the bus,

the brass chimes that fell off the door, and the dead grass backyard blanket, and the overgrown fields

where your dad smokes ***, and the heat wave transposed radio, and the bird nest window mold ,

And the lawn flamingos become a part of him or her that peruses them now,

flame retardant,

american canyon: The Gateway to Somewhere Else, hallelujah, hallelujah,

Amen.