I ride my bike home from the Amtrak station.
It's night, here.
I’d call ahead to have the lights turned on
if there was someone there to call.
The train station was re-modeled
to look like an authentic stop over on the gold rush
with a commemorative hitch out front
for horses. On the way to gold
but not gold. With my red hood and blue bike
I could be a detail in someone else’s poem.
It would be a poem about a girl who skates on a pond,
solves a mystery by accident and becomes a local hero.
My trailer is at a cul-de-sac which is a dead end street
where one is free to drive in circles.
The sidewalk ends before it reaches me
with a child’s hand imprint: Sonia 1943.
Around my trailer the trees drop spiny balls
known as ankle twisters.
There are Tibetan prayer flags
in the trees. I must have put them there
but I don't recall doing it. The scientist couple
next door are throwing a party.
Through the dining room window
I see women in pastel fleece
and men in khaki vests with a surplus
of pockets. One woman throws her head back
laughing as if someone said something
funny. A man with a phone clipped to his belt
dances with one hand holding onto a kitchen chair
at arms distance like a partner he’s afraid to embrace.
Everyone looks unhappy and content
as if their lives turned out exactly as planned.
In the dark it looks like my trailer
fell from the sky and landed in the yard
by mistake. The sycamores are quiet
as if waiting for a sign as to what to do next.
A couple park on the street in their silent electric car
and call out surprise when they enter
but no one is startled. I call my trailer ‘the moho'
as in mobile home. It's next to a dry creek
except when it rains then it feeds the ocean.
It's night, here.
I’d call ahead to have the lights turned on
if there was someone there to call.
The train station was re-modeled
to look like an authentic stop over on the gold rush
with a commemorative hitch out front
for horses. On the way to gold
but not gold. With my red hood and blue bike
I could be a detail in someone else’s poem.
It would be a poem about a girl who skates on a pond,
solves a mystery by accident and becomes a local hero.
My trailer is at a cul-de-sac which is a dead end street
where one is free to drive in circles.
The sidewalk ends before it reaches me
with a child’s hand imprint: Sonia 1943.
Around my trailer the trees drop spiny balls
known as ankle twisters.
There are Tibetan prayer flags
in the trees. I must have put them there
but I don't recall doing it. The scientist couple
next door are throwing a party.
Through the dining room window
I see women in pastel fleece
and men in khaki vests with a surplus
of pockets. One woman throws her head back
laughing as if someone said something
funny. A man with a phone clipped to his belt
dances with one hand holding onto a kitchen chair
at arms distance like a partner he’s afraid to embrace.
Everyone looks unhappy and content
as if their lives turned out exactly as planned.
In the dark it looks like my trailer
fell from the sky and landed in the yard
by mistake. The sycamores are quiet
as if waiting for a sign as to what to do next.
A couple park on the street in their silent electric car
and call out surprise when they enter
but no one is startled. I call my trailer ‘the moho'
as in mobile home. It's next to a dry creek
except when it rains then it feeds the ocean.