You Keep Showing Me Rooms Where People Lived
On my trip to San Diego
I could barely climb into the cab
of the Ford F-150 gas guzzler monster.
I held tight on that rumpus ride
through the canyons of Balboa Avenue.
I held tight because this room changed
while I was away in Ohio
birthing one last boy, crying one last joy,
scraping the mud from the Little Miami
where sometimes, when the sun skips
like stones across the water,
a bass or bluegill or sucker
jumped.
Someone had painted the room.
Someone dragged the bed to the other wall
leaving gouges in the hardwood.
Someone tore down the lace curtains,
and replaced the wood panes with vinyl.
Someone opened the window
and let the Santa Ana devil winds
wreck everyone who lived here.
8 thoughts on "You Keep Showing Me Rooms Where People Lived"
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The idea of someone and the evidence left by their existence is fascinating. I want to read more, see more of the rooms the poet’s eyes have observed.
Thank you. Perhaps we will have a series going here.
when the sun skips
like stones across the water,
a bass or bluegill or sucker
jumped.
Evening is magic at the river. Always remember skipping stones.
I loveeee all of the place names. Always gives me on the road vibes.
Thanks. Sometimes I keep the references and sometimes I take them out. It depends on in this poem, Santa Ana winds and San Diego make it fit.
Great movement in this poem!
Love:
birthing one last boy, crying one last joy,
scraping the mud from the Little Miami
where sometimes, when the sun skips
like stones across the water,
a bass or bluegill or sucker
jumped.
You capture change in the places we knew/loved/hurt…I feel like I’ve been there, though I’ve not, which is what make this a good poetic journey.