Freeway

the road markings run, reflected
on my sunglasses
in swooping arches
the freeway ferns in on itself
and spits me out
where nothing happens but concrete grows

the trains don’t come this far
not now, not yet
never quite in time

they grow tomatoes now
these friends with not-enough children
and too-much time

the salad is nice, real nice
but it is still just a salad
I didn’t know heirloom basil existed
but there you go

they grow their own mangoes as well
– or rather, mangoes happen in their backyard
“they thrive on neglect”, they say
and I look for a dramatic reveal
in the way they are determined
to maintain eye contact