speed boats, trailered, without their hubs
coat with crackled leaved and crushed earth.
a coffee joint. tavern. scattered post boxes:
it is a silent heaven in madrone leaves
white in the dark.
morning hazes over the mountains; fog;
and pines pierce the veranda view.
bottle bury along the path
and truck parts lay rusting until the summer.
the tip jar overflows with crystallized cash
and the gas hardware store keeps business.
sunday swells and pours clearing evidence
the folks will look you in the eye
and strum stairway to heaven on the guitar
while you sip on coffee and wonder the day.
the garden swirls hiding roaches
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