Telescope

I’d rather be in Truckee, dipping my bare feet in thawing rivers
As eighteen wheelers whiz by on the interstate,
Laughing and whistling along to highway music in the pines.

Or in sleepy Carmel village where the sun plays over the icy undertow,
Where grandfather clocks tick and sea glass glistens in sandy windows
And the pancakes always come with extra syrup.

In that shining city, sandwiched between tourists and tramps
Bathed in the violent glow of a midnight Bloomingdales,
Shopping bags and peace signs in hand,
Throwing our change like careless confetti
Into the open mouths of instrument cases.

Or deep in the hills of China camp,
Where people laugh and little marsh fires burn late into the night.
Where old men show you the outline of Saturn
Through the little plastic tubes of a telescope.

Anywhere but this rotting town with its manikin mothers
And empty embraces
Where ambition is shoved down your throat,
A daily dose of values.

Where I sit alone at my whitewashed desk,
Hoping that summer doesn’t forget my name.