Suburbia 2

Iridescent oil slick
prism shatters bright
pink from one
facet on the drive
dandelions lie
among clumps
of crab grass
spider bites
toddlers' knees
rope on the swing
frayed, may break
when the sun dies
eaten by the moon
lunch time barbeque
June, with whom
you slept (your wife
still pretends not to know)
adjusts her mirrored specs
anticipating a stellar show

Shadows

Who are they,
the brittle shells

peeping from under cars?
They play

like children.  They leap
from tree to tree

and dance acrobatically just past
the ivy-clad meridian.  May

they ever draw near
enough for me

to see friends
among their masks,

the eyes that glow
with too-quick life?

Polemic

Mammon smells green:
perfume of cash

on the air.  Retail
or mausoleum?

The white, mostly marble
stretch of Grant Street

thronged with sleek
livestock, prize

heifers hauling bags
from Armani, Joe's

Jeans.  I bite the hand
of a big one.

She lows and kicks me off,
then with her phone sells

her stock in British Petroleum
at a loss.

Lizard

Flicker, dart
red stripe, brown
scale and claw.

From shade to sun
then return.
The eye, stern

and glossy black.
Lipless head, turn
this way and that.

A spider dies
snatched off a star thistle
whose spines tell no lies.

Telegraph Hill

A banana tree, odd to see
in this clammy town.

It overhangs the rickety
Filbert steps:

wet wood rambling down
towards Julius Castle --

closed for now -- recently
bought, I think

by some old coot; he must have wooed
his prom date there.

Her shoulders glowed white
in a mink stole.

A drink and a dance.  The lily corsage
wilted decades ago.

Misspent Youth

Eight full hours I worked that day
before slouching towards the gray

line of ocean stretched pole to pole.
Whitecaps and a tanker's scarred hull

slid towards the hidden Golden Gate.
I had a fifth of vodka with me.  Great

plumes of sand, tan and claw-shaped
leapt up off the dunes.  Succulents draped

over the hills hid a place where I
could sleep in my vast German army coat lined

with fake green fur.  Warmed by the lonely horn
heralding fog, I donned headphones.  Blondie.  Born

of a beast of a man, I could lay my head
anywhere away from the lights, the club kids' tread.

Civic Center 11 am

Stainless steel, brushed,
the ring stamped with a crown.

It glows gold in the hushed
sun-flooded bazaar down

from City Hall's verdegris dome.
Among pollarded trees stands a lone

vendor selling pretzels and Coke.
He seemed the king of the world

that moment he tipped his hat and spoke.

Marisol

She was smacked on the face only once as a child, for calling her brother a name.  "You little shit!" she cried when Ruben during one of his games smeared mud on the pink moire silk of which her quinciñera dress was made.  Her mother knew enough English to get dark in the face and bent out of shape.  Tears of anger cascaded down Marisol's face.  She ran away that night, but by the next day graced the backseat of a cruiser that had been on the make for truants.  What could he say, her father who worked til sundown for so little pay?  He was meek in the police station, his gray boots streaked with dirt, his shirt flecked with hay.  "Your mother forgives you and loves you, and God will never let you stray."  What a jolt into womanhood, that sixteenth birthday.