Baggage - an Oildale Poem
Baggage
The man with the walking stick
is standing on the sidewalk in front
of the McDonald's
near the trailer court
filled with empty tin shacks
along McCord Avenue.
He waves to the woman
pulling a green suitcase
as if she were boarding a plane to
Morroco, South America or the Great White North.
Perhaps.
Domestic turbulence
syringes
cellophane cigarette wrappers
fast food.
Buildings with green crosses,
and abandoned shopping carts
The Oildale Depot.
Smoke rises in the air
from his cigarette
and mine as I stand by my car
watching the woman walk down the sidewalk
as if she were leaving for somewhere or
leaving something behind.
Her short black hair
bouncing almost
as if swaying in the wind
and her hand rising
and anticipating the man with the walking stick
as he jaywalks
through the rapid traffic
on the avenue in front of the
auto repair shop
and internet cafe gambling hall's
active sign
almost neon light
rising above the neighborhood
like an airport control tower.
The two embrace and smoke
rises above them
the way tiny clouds
envelope the mountains
in the Andes, or the Golden Gate Bridge
far away
but the two stand still
in the streets of Oildale.
© 2017 Fin
