Our California

Our California sits on the corner of Crest Cafe

where young, Mexican men pour hot cups of coffee

and catch serving trays acrobatically in the palm of one hand.

Where black city men sit on bicycles and look into shop windows,

wiping a shiny forehead with the backs of their hands

before pedaling fast away, and there I am —

on a slow-motion summer morning when the air

is sweet as dried figs and plums from the Kobey Flea next door

and even the woman asleep on the sidewalk floor

can feel the sun momentarily shine from all sides.

Our California is a bird of paradise, but in the winter it suddenly dies.

It dies with the man fishing pennies from the Piazza fountain downtown,

and with the person resting on an outside door who gets crushed,

then ignored, by a girl on the other side.

It dies waiting in line at the grocery outlet store

and with the man looking down holding his handmade highway sign.

Our California dies in passing glimpses and fractions

as breakfast is served, plates cleared after, and the heat outside rises.