Coffee, cream, a plastic cup,
rainbow sunset, palms lined up,
flowers growing in the sand,
bare legs showing, getting tanned,
hearts on the electric gate,
funny SPEEFY license plate,
Marvin cloned from outer space,
stay on Capistrano Place.
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I'm running home at night. The cars all shine their lights like shooting stars. In line they start. Their spreading glow brightens the dark before they go. They fill the air. The beams they cast and grime they spread and sounds they blast and stench they spill as they drive past make spaces worse while they go fast.
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House stands up tall on wooden beams to scaffold someone's future dreams.
Construction crew's all wearing reds while building quarters for their beds.
Neighbors must hate the noise and mess that make it hard to decompress.
And once it's done new occupants will bring expanded opulence.
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Majestically the flyer goes into the atmosphere.
He elevates his eyes and nose and softly sunlit ears.
The other riders on the plane face frontward as they soar.
Transplants transcend tele-terrain, transmigrate door to door.
And so he too, the little man, sits soundless in his seat,
aboard the plane sans plaint or plan, upon four furry feet.
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Cherry colored strands enhance and frame two widened ice-gray eyes that, alarmed, twinkle like the stars that tip two glossy-taloned hands which hold your purple latte mug while some old coughing lady dies.
We're sitting in the coffee shop trying to work near my last day to make the most of fading moments 'til we suddenly eavesdrop two scraggled friends and sickly granny chatter as she fades away.
Hack-hack-hacking noises from across the table just behind you echo evidence her syrup bottle fails to overcome whichever dire contagion this wizened woman will expire to.
You look at me while turning green. You try to hold your breath.
And still she's there, nursing her tea. She fills the air with germ debris and jokes with friends, through swigs of lean, and chokes up must be half her spleen. We stash our stuff, like squirrels on meth, and dash before we catch her death.
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These poems are Avi's diary. You can email him at avi@invariablyhappy.com