This is a time of Californian proportions - 2008.
Burnt blacktop feet slip off sandals,
Making their way to a hot dog vendor next to the hobo.
On the way home, stop at Eric’s -
Grandma needs her Corona -
The Corona, super-stained hardwood oak floors,
and the no more heat oppressed
dirt on the backyard hills makes up the smell-
A smell of no worries,
breezing past a trail of detached lizard tails,
and cliche descriptions of the beach,
and wide, glaring, yellow highway bridge roads.
I would awake to morning coffee,
slip out unto cold payment,
and smoke around the corner,
between the shed and the house.
Later I’m told Grandma’s daughter
had chosen this same spot to smoke 15 years earlier.
I would sit, and smoke,
and prepare for the most magical place on Earth,
Prepare for Seaside visits to local towns,
Where my sister’s future is written on the aura psychic on the street corner.
I would gear up to play a little “Hey Mister” for a pack,
all while watching some exotic morning slug pass by.