We live in yellow houses
with old walks cracking
leftover chow mien crusty and gardens like jungles.
We creep around the oleander stalks and rotting laurel
eating houses like we eat the space,
our minds adapting our skin expanding in 100 degrees
in asphalt nights like we are used to hiding
down behind dumpsters
drinking champagne
and wanting to be just like big kids do aren't we
there yet?
The golden coast is bright this year and
our minds are only radio tuner dials
we can just keep track for maybe five minutes
where are we going again? Watching
outside tracks through empty panes and ghosting smoke-
didn't you live here before?
You were my neighbor and we played in
blinds with the long shadows dropped on floors.
Well I don't live there now in that house
with the white walls and the bedrooms facing east.
Well, you don't live here you said you never
see anyone anymore,
but
I bought you a coffee with my last two dollars
which you didn't want anyway.