Читать книгу Hustle - David Tomas Martinez - Страница 10

3.

Some run away with the circus;

I ran away with the canyon,

where there were no tomatoes.

Nothing suns the canyon floor

or grows along the freeway but trash,

no overgrowth of eucalyptus and elm,

frayed palm trees, or mangled brush

to shade the snagging of teenager’s

bruised lips in braces. No secret trail

leads to foyers and dens furnished

with broken box springs and books

without tables. This beach

of rocks is where furniture

and mattresses swim to die.

Freeway on one side, backyards treed

with barbeques and sheds on the other,

the canyon flourishes with cenotaphs

of reddened tin and grey wood.

With nothing but time, crops

of bottles and chicken bones,

thrown from the freeway,

stretch upward restlessly

in the six by nine of sun.