April in Hollywood by Wanda Coleman

Wanda Coleman
Wanda Coleman

cool brisk fingers in my hair

the fresh sweet bite of crisp red delicious apples

service stations with “sorry no gas” signs

palm trees.  the american flag full mast and shouting

sun.  the body shop in red black and white. wind

the black man in blue who’s got to get to cerritos

on 55cents. latins stealing swigs of tequila from

a torn brown paper bag in the back of a bus

radios barking disco

dogs mute in the face of poverty

old white ladies with shopping bags as wrinkled

as their necks, in tattered wigs, black high-fashion

eyelashes and green mascara

crisp starched sagebrush narcs crawling campuses

for children dealing illegal drugs

sweaty gay runners in tennis shoes jogging up sunset

chinese japanese thai korean vietnamese and

soul food kitchen smells

the mindless roar of

traffic on the boulevards at rush hour

endless grey curbs of home.

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