SOLITUDE
I'd go skateboarding late,
near midnight, on Christmas Eve
where my aunt used to live
in the San Fernando Valley,
and where it was cold in the winter,
as cold as Southern California gets.
There were more stars in the valley,
and I loved gazing up at them
to the sound of my wheels
grinding on the asphalt.
I remember pushing my board up big, quiet hills
lined with beautiful gabled houses
with perfect lawns and two, or three, car garages,
lit pathways leading up to black front doors
between white Corinthian columns.
I imagined gorgeous blonde daughters
in each house, on the phone in pink rooms,
painting their toenails, giggling with one another.
But the best part was finally reaching
the top of some intersection, stopping under a streetlight,
completely alone, to sit on the curb for awhile.
Even then, maybe fourteen, I wished for poetry,
for more poetry under the flickering light.
ONE EYE OPEN
The clouds over me
Like a purple-dark Renaissance robe,
Bicycling, listening to Sting
Sing, there's a little black spot on the sun today.
Loss is everywhere.
Loss in the two hippies blowing Didgeradoos
By the sea, loss in the student who looked at me
With racoon eyes, loss in the poetry book I bought for $12.99.
I pedal hard to get rid of the angst.
So much of it every day. But it probably won't work.
Purging of the inconsequential act or remark,
Like a cerebral washing machine.
I'd like to wear myself dirty for awhile.
Let all the smears and spots show.
Who's going to know?
The army of work marches on with or without me.
My pregnant wife grows bigger every day.
That's a blessing.
I sleep with one eye open to the night.
