11-03-2014, 07:49 PM
Two Scenes From Los Angeles
I: The family that owns the bodega on the corner
Outside, midday—
sun baking pavement,
reflecting off the blacktop,
bringing the air to a stagnant boil.
Young girl singing to herself, trash can lid at her feet
filled with repurposed mop water and a squirt of soap.
Her mind dwells transfixed in a world created anew
with every swipe of her flyswatter bubble-wand,
a world of iridescent spheres
floating frenetic up through the ether.
Laughing, still singing, eyes glowing,
she wonders just what each bubble is thinking
and why it would ever want to pop.
Older boy crouched next to her,
sidewalk interstates laid out before his toy truck
in endless figure 8s.
Clicks and clacks of scuffed plastic on concrete
play percussion for the symphony of gurgling engine noises
spewing from his pursed lips.
He swerves and squeals a swirling crescendo of demanded attention
as he pulls on his father’s pant-leg,
to no avail.
Their father leans against a wall, static, stoic,
phone in hand,
blank expression spread across his grey, unmoving face.
II: The park under the bridge and by the river
The sun is setting and it’s breezy.
All the trees are glimmering.
The leaves shake and their green gives way to the auric glow of a slowly dying day.
Shadows pass over a middle aged couple seated at a park bench,
telephone wires casting their faces in shifting silhouette.
Here and there,
a man passed out on the grass with a bottle of popov as his only pillow
and a broad grin of blissful dreams plastered across his twitching face,
a man playing fetch with an old dog,
chickens running hither, thither.
I’m sitting away from it all,
catching sidelong glances that linger just a bit too long
from a man with his son.
There’s graffiti on the trees.
I: The family that owns the bodega on the corner
Outside, midday—
sun baking pavement,
reflecting off the blacktop,
bringing the air to a stagnant boil.
Young girl singing to herself, trash can lid at her feet
filled with repurposed mop water and a squirt of soap.
Her mind dwells transfixed in a world created anew
with every swipe of her flyswatter bubble-wand,
a world of iridescent spheres
floating frenetic up through the ether.
Laughing, still singing, eyes glowing,
she wonders just what each bubble is thinking
and why it would ever want to pop.
Older boy crouched next to her,
sidewalk interstates laid out before his toy truck
in endless figure 8s.
Clicks and clacks of scuffed plastic on concrete
play percussion for the symphony of gurgling engine noises
spewing from his pursed lips.
He swerves and squeals a swirling crescendo of demanded attention
as he pulls on his father’s pant-leg,
to no avail.
Their father leans against a wall, static, stoic,
phone in hand,
blank expression spread across his grey, unmoving face.
II: The park under the bridge and by the river
The sun is setting and it’s breezy.
All the trees are glimmering.
The leaves shake and their green gives way to the auric glow of a slowly dying day.
Shadows pass over a middle aged couple seated at a park bench,
telephone wires casting their faces in shifting silhouette.
Here and there,
a man passed out on the grass with a bottle of popov as his only pillow
and a broad grin of blissful dreams plastered across his twitching face,
a man playing fetch with an old dog,
chickens running hither, thither.
I’m sitting away from it all,
catching sidelong glances that linger just a bit too long
from a man with his son.
There’s graffiti on the trees.