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
the fruit salad says I’m a bad friend

and I’m inclined to believe it