California

When I lost my first fulltime job after college, I was persuaded by friends to move from Michigan to California, where I stayed for almost 3 years.

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Sunsets over the Pacific are a fathomless gold

like an antique pocketwatch lovingly shined

to keep it real. When you can see them,

Lake Michigan sunsets are Pepto pink as the sun

sinks below the horizon into the waiting embrace

of the not-visible-from-here Chicago skyline.

Nights at both ends of the world are lonely.

You tell me that all religions are delusions, but

there is far worse delusion in this world.

With each new relationship’s end a piece of

you dies, you said, while with me I wonder

if it was ever even there at all. From above,

the clouds over Lake Michigan look like

macaroons, and as I travel down the highway

the snow gathering on the pavement reminds me

of bread mold. What is left for me here?

What is waiting for me in California?

You are a warm embrace, and a patient ear,

and a new beginning, but what do I do

with you? They tell me it’s cold in June. It’s

cold in January, too, but I’ve kept warm. What

are you going to do with your car? they ask, and

I tell them I’ll sell it because I don’t want to drive.

You like your eggs scrambled like everyone else,

which makes me think that people are very different

from sunsets. Such a wonder, California, that I think

I’ll slip you on, like a used pair of jeans with a

hole in the knee. Michigan is just too worn through.

I’ll buy my ticket, I’ll pack my bag, and I’ll fly

toward that Pacific sunset. And we’ll see if it doesn’t

just turn pink.

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