My Last California Poem
Will not be found
in the airport concession stand
selling seven dollar candy,
or the co-opted nature food shop
with enough uneaten natural ingredients
to cap off a landfill,
or the wedding held
in two separate ranches,
the guests hiking up and down
like the burros they used
to haul their grapes and olives.
Go to our cabin refuge.
It will be empty. We paid an extra night
so we could store our luggage
before making our red eye.
While no one's there,
you can enter, crawl to the top floor
where a little girl
kicked her feet on the wall
while instagraming
to count the ways
she didn't want to return to Southie
and an apartment not much bigger
than our suites by the bay
where she sat in her mother's robe
to try and slow the hours
to each departure.
Find your poem there.
I tried, but the land
only resists change
for those who live there.
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