I travel south through
lettuce fields, past oil wells,
cross a corridor of crucified vineyards.
Now I settle into a borrowed office
among the pines, make my bed
on someone else’s red sofa.
At beach side bar, I sip champagne,
contemplate whitecaps punctuating the bay,
admire a tiny boat with taut sails
as it skims the horizon.
Strings of pelicans soar just above waves,
broken stone, a thin strip of shoreline.
Back in my room, I am
surrounded by other folk’s photos,
soothed by the whisper of tree limbs
against ceiling skylights.
Outside, a swollen moon rises.
From his picture frame,
moody John Lennon smolders.