Where I Live

 

 

Boys with dark eyelashes stare me down from two parking spaces over

In a tricked out clunker.

Watch me as I buckle the seatbelt and twist the wheel out into the night of silhouetted cactus

And open skies - not an evergreen in sight.

 

The flourescent light just barely reaches the bum on the sidewalk

Sharing vodka with his wife

Across from the periwinkle and butter yellow and pale turquoise

Housing projects.

 

The next morning the air will be smokey

And the hot sun will choke out the breeze

You hold your breath waiting to feel.

 

But then -

 

In October when the skies start forgetting to be blue

And the wind becomes real again

I am suddenly elated, and I don't know why.

 

And then I realize it's because if I close my eyes

I can pretend there are pine needles on the ground

And tall old buildings made of brick

Laid long before my great-grandfather was born.

 

I can pretend that the restaurant on the corner isn't "of course" Mexican

And that people put wreathes on the doors

Instead of kokopellis.

 

If I close my eyes I can see the Mayflower, the redwoods, the standing stones.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again.

I want to go home.