Mr. Avery
opens the living room window in his doublewide.
Beyond the mobile home park comes the moan and grumble
of traffic on the 101.
BBQ wafts in from Sanchez’s place, next door.
Smell of grilling hotdogs sweet-talks Mr. Avery
back to San Francisco,
back to Sutro Baths,
back to 1932.
Mr. Avery
clings to his mother’s floral patterned dress,
squeezes his father’s calloused hand,
forks over 10¢ to the ticket lady.
Roman columned entryway.
Lofty glass cases with taxidermic animals:
ocelot, leopard, lynx.
Diffused sunlight shines through grandiose glass paneled dome.
Air wet with humidity, feeding a forest of potted broadleaf
palms – stems stretching upward toward glass dome,
fronds drooping high above promenade
like perfect slices of a green umbrella.
Orchestra on rococo balcony,
resuscitating Strauss.
Grand Stairway leading down, down, down to
7 swimming pools crammed with
a hundred million people.
Next to the Grand Stairway,
a small restaurant,
where Mr. Avery sits, eating hot dogs
and roasted peanuts until
his father and mother finish
their Saturday swim.
Mr. Avery
closes the living room window,
fiddles with prosthetic leg under woolen trousers,
rolls a cigarette,
wipes the water from his face
as if it were spit – these days are different,
everything fell short, washed up,
and just like that
everyone is dead.
*******
Previously published in Slipstream Publications.
