As a child in my mama’s womb
Topanga at 65.
Born I would say,
“I can smell the ocean.”
Halfway through the Santa Monica Mountains.
Reflecting on how I can never leave these mountains.
Hitchhiking as a teenager
Or high in the back of a car thinking,
“Do these guys know where they are going?”
Fast turns and endless nights.
Foggy mornings when we ditched school,
Taking a slow ride to the beach.
Riding my white mustang through
The Topanga fire trails,
Both of us swimming in a river
Near the end of those trails.
Long journeys looking for my dad,
Who had dementia yet hitchhiked,
To a bar on the Pacific Coast Highway.
How did he get there?
The police brought him back.
He grew up near the Santa Monica Pier.
I can never leave these Mountains,
Joining the San Fernando Valley
To the Pacific Ocean.
I see old burnt trees,
From those hideous fires,
I smell green plants and flowers returning,
From the blessing of a hearty rainstorm.
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