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It may be the gateway
to Yosemite’s stark glory,
but unlike the Sierra
sneaking up behind it,
the city of Fresno is an
ucking fugly collection of
east-leaning buildings,
blade-bare lawns, and
half-digested asphalt.
Cool enough now, almost
Christmas, but hotter than
Sahara sand in summer.
Really can’t wait to live here.
RIGHT TURN, LEFT TURN, RIGHT …
Do that a dozen or so times,
you end up in the broken-down
neighborhood I now call home.
The houses are fifties era. Built
around the time kids still did
duck-under-your-desk drills,
as if that could protect them
from nuclear bombs. Ha! Maybe
that’s what happened to this
neighborhood. Wonder if I should
worry about radiation. Maybe
wrap myself in aluminum foil.
At last (so soon?) we pull up
in front of a totally inconspicuous
place. (Not!) “It’s fricking pink.”
Salmon pink, with rotten red trim.
