There’s a wall across the street — so they call it Wall St.
It was one of those nights I’d gotten lost inside a stanza —
when I heard a couple on their way to somewhere,
talking on the wall. The broken sounds
of their conversation carried into my Airstream.

Yeas — Nays

I listened and nodded at the spaces
between the yeas and nays —
which triggered some odd memories —
one on the legendary black woman who raised me —
then won a very big bet — so I made her into a Rainfall Hazel.

Next — I wrote down another woman
who spoke five languages, seven if you include dog and cat.
Johanna wore ungodly manila panties,
a wicker Thanksgiving basket at the crotch —
a cornucopia of benevolence —
a dynamic cheetah on the motorcycle.

My overall conditions were a little ragged.
Ventura weather was mild. Quesadillas kept coming.
Stars watched over my slab. White bike was tucked away.
Last year’s murder at the gate felt long gone.

Mudslides and cellos mean bad news — Margins narrowed.
Dogs howled. The couple went their way …

Yeaaah, ahhh yowl