Lunch in the backyard of my new
pink stucco home: a bowl of spring
minestrone and sliced buccellato—
the larger the cake they say, the more
good luck. Heat piles up
like an oil spill hung out to dry,
onramp across the street
a monument to trash, graffiti
and weeds. I rise, go to bed

by the roar of in-transit noise,
18 million people always
going somewhere. I’m just another
soft-shell soft-sell earthling
wishing this tiny scrap of real
estate and bad plumbing
wasn’t mine, perception
muddled with desire
when I buy anything. The sun

smug as cumulus congestus
float by, L.A. clouds
with no memory of rain,
my bird of paradise, hardy
plant and symbol of a wise
perspective, turning brown —
clearer air tomorrow is at best
a crapshoot though carries
better odds than resale.