A dream of nobody but me:
Los Angeles, 1993: solitary, upon the cold tin bed
Of an early 80s black Toyota pickup truck whose battery is dead
In a dirt lot, lying still, looking to the night-
At the stars, crushed in a palm, thrown like dice;
Big white moon; long bruise sky; fists clenched tight-
Mom and dad are working somewhere in the city tonight.
An infant anxiety birthed from the debris of collected memories;
They might die in some ways. In more ways than the ones
In which they have since coming to this country. Nearly cry, but
The volume on the tv set inside the house was high enough that
I could vaguely make out the Myposian accent of Balki Bartokomous
                       

Why not-a question asked in the mirror-for the sake of drama,
for a little theatre:
Why do those in my life disappear?


Look, there, sprayed yellow and long upon the galactic contusion,
Muse on a life-like lady, cradling a life-like baby
Some consolation, no clouds but make-believe constellations
Of my mother and I

*

Clotheslines, a sheet of music
In the sky. Skirt and sock sonata,
Rhapsody of rags on a line
Color and tonality in the air
Some relief from concrete on
That silent chime. Workshirt symphony
On a wind-willed schizophrenic staff-
Off time