To Dennis Johnson
The beachcombers
take themselves
like serious trains
to Los Angeles Palo Alto Santa
Monica’s legs
worn down by the sand
like the dense chunks
of green bottle you lapped
up on her shores,
glass smoked as the windows
of the damp building
you locked yourself in
for some odd number of years.
You called it a supermarket
And a search for creamed corn.
The empty refrigerator
depresses us,
you complained to your underwear.
You lounged with the produce.
The women are not peaches but skin
holds them together when they
threaten to burst.
The diamonds in their glasses
scrape down our throats.
We name your wife Mexico
We name your hat Divorce.
Our voices run hoarse
and you leave for some
better planet.
I will call you my sweating astronaut
I will call you, Goodbye!
I will keep calling if you’ll keep the suit on.