Oregon Ave
You can’t find a place to smoke anymore
Ro says, smoking and rifling
through her handbag looking for a number.
She sits in the backseat with Meg.
They’re not singing.
The ballgame’s on inside and outside
the game is always on.
Actually, sometimes they do sing.
What year is the car, a ’98?
A Ford? A Focus?
They always tip too.
There is dust, always; and terrible dirt;
but if that’s what you see you’re hardly looking.
We believe in the front stoop.
We believe in banging pots and pans and honking horns.
We believe that in the heat of day shadows come back.
Trashcan on fire says Things are hotting up.
The street’s a mix, water, water ice, LIVE CRABS,
jumbo jets, firecrackers.
Summer days are huge and often overlap late into fall.
Seriously, when you have a good spot, why move the car?
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