Learning to Drive

Layover

Layover

I met her in the lobby bar of a hotel

down by the airport in LA. It was

the kind of place you end up when

your choices are like a game of

“Would You Rather?”

An exchange of pleasantries evolved

into sad stories about business trips

and missed connections. She told me

she was getting a divorce and out here

looking for a new start. Why not? I thought,

sadness always looks better with a tan

and a good pair of sunglasses.

She told me she dreamed in pastels

which struck me as odd, because

she only spoke in primary colors

like pain and regret.

I asked her if she wanted to come

up to my room and she looked down

as if she had dropped something

under the bar. She mumbled something,
looked up and I could see the resignation
in her smile.

Murmured protestations often proceed

to surrender in dim resolve of night

as the alcohol and feel of another’s flesh
dull the ache.

“What did she say her name was?”

SMG

Roadside Assistance

You were a top down
drive up the coast
and I hugged each curve
like it was my first and last;
your luxury so foreign
to my economic hands
and domestic heart.

The time skipped past
with dotted line persistence
and dark glasses concealed
my doubts and your tears

When the road turned
inland I let go the wheel
and we began to drift
into the oncoming traffic.
I never thought about
checking the mileage
until we ran out of gas
and I left you stranded
on the side of the road.

Learning to Drive

Learning to Drive

I sat at my new desk and searched the internet for a shoe repair shop. Outside my window stood a trilogy of palm trees that told the story of LA. Transplanted and slightly out of place, as are most thing here, they swayed with the temperate wind oblivious to the homeless woman resting below. Behind her, an endless stream of cars lined up to pay four dollars a gallon for gas.

On my way back to work this afternoon there was a traffic jam on the 110.  It had started because a dog had been hit in the number one lane. We all honked and cursed our misfortune as the cars backed up the freeway. Somewhere not far away I imagined a young boy calling for his pet unaware that it was now a dent is someone’s bumper.

They say cobblers are disappearing because the craft is no longer taught in any trade schools. The advent of cheap industrially manufactured shoes has rendered repair obsolete. It is easier and cheaper to throw out old shoes and buy new ones. The only place to learn shoe repair is in prison. I wonder if I am the only one who finds that ironic.

I started a new job this week. It is much like the last job and, for that matter, the one before that. This one is in LA where I will spend my days cursing dead dogs and wondering if we should have a pet. It pays enough to buy plenty of shoes, enough gas and to keep a roof over my head. I think I might rent a house with palm trees in the yard so I remember where I am.

SMG

Photo by Tim Austin and he will be pissed if he catches me!

Angel City

Angel City

Los Angeles is a soft-core porn cliché,

all silicon enhanced titillation and come-

fuck-me pumps with no money shot.

Glamour seems so much crueler when

it’s look but don’t touch and no amount

of sunshine can warm an empty bed.

Satisfaction it seems is only for subscribers

and most of this city is access denied.

We’re all on the outside, faces pressed

against the mirrored windows, afraid

that our fifteen have mistakenly been

lost in the mail or given to someone else.

SMG