So I wanted to write my own poem about the interrogation that occurred to me today...
Not Quite Ripe
Between Wasco and St. Charles-
where you'd worry if ten hormonal children
weren't shoe-printing in the freshly tarred driveways
as you mowed- that's where I lived.
From Elgin-
the slimy E-Town,
with not yet ripe tangerine
and puke yellow bricks making each house
the same, and all the kids are cooped up
watching Days Of Our Lives
with everyone's mothers, afraid
of the rapist next door-
to here, the ghostly retirement village.
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