Poetry

  For all the years he worked as a pattern cutter
in the denim sweatshops of Los Angeles,
  my father never spoke of what it was he did.

Height after height of strange mountain scenes,

new words, new ideas in our conversation.

I just left them there holding their breath,
summer dripping from their honeyed
muzzles. 

There drifts the sky again,
Here, a single thought crawls slow as a flea.

There was a burst
of static
on radios
all over the city