Is it?

Is it?

The screen 

that’s exposed 

when the sliding glass door 

that leads to the balcony 

in my apartment 

is open 

leans just a little 

to the right,

what I mean 

is that even 

when it’s shut

it’s still slightly ajar, 

like a thought 

that won’t go away,

a memory 

not forgotten,

or just today 

when I pictured you. 

A big pink Westin hotel,

I wonder if they 

would have told us

where we would be now

if we still would have made the trip,

a thing in the distance 

that I see clearly,

and it’s walking away from it

stepping out onto the street

when poetry surrounds me.

Like on the steps

down to the beach

when an amigo

offers me 

something to eat

from his bag 

of flaming hot Cheetos,

“I’m good buddy.”

Or the couple 

down at the water

flying their drone 

for an opportunity 

at a selfie,

a bike bell rings

and an hour later

on the walk back home

I see something that I know,

what had 

always been distant 

and safe 

is now right in my face,

the homeless newlyweds

who I always hear screaming,

are walking towards me.

She follows him

and as we come closer

he looks directly at me,

it’s like I’ve seen this scene before,

remember when 

I was talking about the door?

It should probably be closed,

but it’s as if time 

has changed its shape, 

California sunshine 

is good for three things:

convertibles, bikinis, and drinks,

but even they

don't prevent age.

The door still opens all the way

it just can’t completely shut,

like remembering the good days

when the last year 

has been complete shit,

a bag of trash 

you set outside the front door,

while the dumpster 

is a few steps more.

If a picture 

is worth a thousand words,

then I’m sure

if you could see them

and how 

they walk, talk, and act

towards each other

than you’d have some words

for me,

I’d just respond,

“Why do all the crazies 

follow me?”