flatland

The oranges are still green

in flatland, the ghosts still dusty

on the dirty side of the road.

The tumbleweed bony-hilled

sour milk-skied sun-scorched

old motel land.

Orphaned cotton bolls

trapped between the grey clods

of barren fields, the weary oaks,

the cool scent of ditch water

when the sun goes down.

The husks of failed businesses

that must have been

someone's dream.

The cheery colors of the

national franchised chains.

The oleanders in the median strip

of highway 99 are gone;

along with drive-in searchlights

whirling in the night.

But back seat babies

must still be around,

because the billboards scream

about the evils of abortion.

The night is kinder, the blight unseen,

out on the two-lane county roads

with walnut orchards on one side

and alfalfa on the other,

the scent of raisins drying

under the vines, and moths

fluttering in the street light

at a crossroads market.

It's a blood memory:

the remnant of the mosquito bite

that infected me in 1952

with encephalitis, brain fever.

one night at the drive-in

out at Noble avenue and Road 156.

Now it's a weed patch

with a rusty sign:

Sequoia Autotheatre

and hanging from the marquee

there’s a new sign,

Available:

eleven acres zoned

for highway commercial.