My eyes tonight have no care
for the careful geometries of these Southern
houses. My hands are on the wheel
and I can’t wipe my eyes.
J’s out in the park chasing balls
and girls, dirt and flesh fused
together on his knees. Once, we wore
shorts of the same neon
blue. Or was it red?
I don’t remember. I would write
my home as North California and cheer
for the Panthers at night. The drive
is silent with the monolithic sound
of radio, only the static
interrupting. I can no longer ignore
the hosts’ drawls. Back home
in California a man waits for me
with a gift. He will leave soon to another
state. Last I saw him, I asked if we could move
to the backseat. He said, Do you know
what you want? I said, No,
but please. What was it
that he wore, he sang, his
breath smelled of—