There are thoughts of suicide in the clothing racks of Mission Street thrift stores. And again on the freeway through Oakland. The opthamologist met me in a bathroom stall. She held my hand. She wrote me a prescription for the late morning. And another for the evening time when the radio rises from static. And I talk with so many hitchhikers searching for food. The bungalows are so crowded after dark. I sit on the lawn and listen to the sprinklers seducing the grass.
I begin where I should have never arrived.