In L. A. – six days
and the city is softening
into my body,
map lines convert to somatic recollection;
this coin operated laundry,
this green cracked stucco building,
this steel-gated pawn shop,
this glass wall throwing off the sun,
this broken pavement disturbing sound,
a right turn at bus stop graffiti.
Then there is this,
a traffic-island dweller,
leaning on his shopping cart
at Venice Blvd & Centinela Ave,
soaks the city in,
fumes – horns – sirens – heat
soaks into the city
sirens – horns – fumes – heat.
He is my left turn.