That Hideous Poem

Sometimes a word wriggles its way into a poem.  Sometimes it ignites a poem.  Here, I had images playing in my mind for the past year, then it came together this week; "hideous" crept into the conclusion.







108 Green Valley

"What (are you looking at)?!" he yelled last month as I rode by.

I thought I was minding my own business, but now I look closer each time he's out.

He used to be in a suit, as though a doctor or tech pacing the sidewalk
On a cigarette break near the offices of Radiology Medical Group.

The situation stood out I guess; lately, he wears a Niner's shirt.

A few Friday's back, I saw him—saw me seeing him, after the green smile,
After slipping something into the hand of a twelve or thirteen-year-old boy: Sowing poison in the valley.

Boy trotted across the street to two boys waiting at Quinn for him;
All green and awkward smiles. 

Finally pushing his clenched fist into his pocket,
Protecting his poison, just ahead of my fragile, spinning bike wheel.


Or 800 Brewington and Prospect, a few blocks from home.

Climbing toward Montecito, I see an old blue Ford pickup
Parked along the curb,
Door ajar, bike in the street,
Rider at the door beating on the driver's face;
Driver beating back, slamming the truck in gear.

Like two awkward drunks covered in machines
and only worse for being so and being sober.


Or 1400 Main St. and Pennsylvania: Ramsay Park 
Where I'm left midfielder on Cueramaro-Leon futbol club with Arturo
Who started the team in 1980.  Thirty-three years of good, proud play. 

But today, there's a big blood stain on the concrete near the signal post. 
Caution tape and police cars carve out a lane of Main St.,
And I have to slow down, hoping my children will overlook the enormous
Blot, looking elsewhere for interpretation.

A few days later, the stain has been mostly effaced;
The hideous marker now hidden among the thirsty ghosts
Saddening our streets.