That Was Me

Up a hill’s a hospital.

One baby born

lived two blocks down.

That was me.

 

Wrapped and carried

A blanket became clothes

And I learned not to clutch

To homes that switched forms

Small town to city

 

Some sat,

On hillsides hiding

From the roads slithering up slopes

With their magazine views

And quiet composition.

 

One led to an island of bridge arrows

And canopy entrances where

Soil became sand

And those red shutters

That fluttered on the wind’s command

Left their paint

To bind with passing heels.

 

My sand was erased

By a West Hills overlook

Where the green vines growth

Overtook and gave no gander

To the long view of water

Hidden by the forest.

 

Here I lived flights down past gongs

In a long room leading out to

Back deck hammocks,

Where I would let

My head hang back to see

The grass mix with vines on the slope,

Rocking under an abbreviated sky

 

Again I had to leave

As age eighteen hustled me off

Driving somewhere

As the concrete splits

With me

Right in the cracks

Of travels routes and cardboard.

 

I’ve grown to love movement