Palm trees can root in sand,
their tough fronds dance
above the Boardwalk.
 
Restless, my son moves
with high hopes. He lands
a dream job as a comedy writer.
 
I look at technicolor photos
of pastel painted bicycles
& sweeping arcs of graffiti, 
 
imagine him telling R-rated
jokes, cartooning in endless
sketchbooks, going to open mics.
 
Swirling wildfires sear & scorch 
parts of Los Angeles. My lamb
doesn’t write or phone.
 
Ungovernable flames
shoot up the tall trees 
like hot elevators.