Everyone looked pissed they’d won the weather lottery.
I feared for my immortal soul, i.e., that no one would bid on it.
By Smart and Final (store and commentary)
you hated me as much as the compostable
plates I made you buy, composting in the trunk.
I realized we were driving ghosts
who would never leave Los Angeles:
the blue plate special sky, drive-by bougainvillea;
the freeway where an old exit to Pasadena appeared
and you pointed, saying: Look, from when there were only baby freeways
and no one understood merge.