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.