The corridor, a New Jersey of the West, its stucco newness.
What king was it that built this highway?
The jornaleros with dusty bucket hats
wait for hire beneath the on-ramps
and blocks fill with retirees from somewhere colder.
Lava gardens now outwait the sun. Chapped garages
are stocked against the sure disaster—
the man a few blocks over with his lettuces,
Southern voice & melanomic skin
saw me walking with my infant son:
He said, hey neighbor, keep in mind
I have a shotgun. You can take my lemons if I offer:
But steal em: bam—I’ll show who’s boss.