12.8.17

she lived in a trailer park
in Santa Cruz and shit
in a bucket a halfmile
from the ocean, a halfmile
from the county’s most
expensive seafood restaurant.
she’d stand outside the
restaurant with the same
bucket she shat in (washed out)
and ask for money. she would
not thank those who gifted her
cash, she’d curse those who
gave her coins, and she spit
on those who gave her nothing.
when i met her she was in better
shape. she said, “help me rob
this place,” and i said “sure.”
we split profits and made love
on a public bus and i fell asleep
afterwards and she took my money
and the only picture i had of
my daughter, which i kept
inside my wallet. i sometimes
go to that seafood restaurant
just to look at her because
it makes me feel better inside.
it puts a blanket over this raging
shockwave i’ve had pulsing through
me for fifteen years now, wondering,
always, can anyone have it worse
than i have it? and remembering, no,
reminding myself, yes. there is she.
always she.

Written at 4:36 in the afternoon, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.