Meandering through hill-top neighborhood
of splendid old mansions, I loiter at wrought-iron gates
picketing the senator’s home.
*
“Where does California’s produce go?”
shoppers ask in supermarkets stocked
with Mexican avocados and Chinese garlic.
*
Parking in front of the apartment block,
the produce truck driver whose horn announces
his arrival with “La Cucaracha.”
*
Visiting with us in Los Angeles, our friend
went out for a sunny walk; returned with
wrists bound, misapprehended by cops.
*
At night our tidy clean green park is locked
to keep out rough sleepers who bed down on sidewalks
next to shopping carts full of rubbish.
*
Standing his ground in a pair of elegant
leather shoes, offering each passer-by
a chance to buy the homeless newspaper.
*
Within territorial boundaries of
contested city blocks, yellow fire hydrants
are marked with graffiti signatures.
*
A homeless woman spends her days collecting
odd scraps of paper, then sits in front
of the all-night drugstore, poring over them.
*
Confronting the suspect, police use lethal
force against a disorderly mountain
lion trespassing in a private yard.
*
When you see me walking in the neighborhood,
stopping to admire your garden, I might be
composing a tanka in my head.