California

Written not long before I moved from Michigan to California.

Sunsets over the Pacific are a fathomless gold
like an antique pocketwatch lovingly shined
to keep it real. When you can see them,
Lake Michigan sunsets are Pepto pink as the sun
sinks below the horizon into the waiting embrace
of the not-visible-from-here Chicago skyline.
Nights at both ends of the world are lonely.
You tell me that all religions are delusions, but
there is far worse delusion in this world.
With each new relationship’s end a piece of
you dies, you said, while with me I wonder
if it was ever even there at all. From above,
the clouds over Lake Michigan look like
macaroons, and as I travel down the highway
the snow gathering on the pavement reminds me
of bread mold. What is left for me here?
What is waiting for me in California?
You are a warm embrace, and a patient ear,
and a new beginning, but what do I do
with you? They tell me it’s cold in June. It’s
cold in January, too, but I’ve kept warm. What
are you going to do with your car? they ask, and
I tell them I’ll sell it because I don’t want to drive.
You like your eggs scrambled like everyone else,
which makes me think that people are very different
from sunsets. Such a wonder, California, that I think
I’ll slip you on, like a used pair of jeans with a
hole in the knee. Michigan is just too worn through.
I’ll buy my ticket, I’ll pack my bag, and I’ll fly
toward that Pacific sunset. And we’ll see if it doesn’t
just turn pink.