The light is
fading
turning
silver
slipping
through the trees
Another
evening on the north end of Milpas
in SB
the Platinum
Coast
home to
billionaires and film stars
chic and
suave
red tile
heaven
The old poet
sits and thinks of the places he’s lived,
other
evenings like this one
sitting
watching the
light fade from the sky
Tokyo,
Honolulu, Seattle, Irvine
and the long
trek
back to SB
with his dog and a few
possessions
Home to a
city of memories and ghosts,
the streets
turned foreign
full of
strangers
and the
vacant lots he played in as a boy
long gone,
paved over, built upon
lost forever
Nothing
stays the same
except this
early evening light
it falls
from the trees
into his
outstretched
palm,
lingers a
moment
then
disappears
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