A poem about moving to Bakersfield:
The town felt empty
Though it had grown since
My parents last saw it.
The streets felt slow. No
skyscrapers to reach for.
Only blocks of buildings covered
And vast, brown fields
A long, hot, dusty Exodus from
The City of Angels
In the packed, gray-green Astro van
My mother and father in front
My sister and brother in back
And the crying, brand new baby
In the middle seat next to me and my
Pungent distaste for the whole affair
But then, there was the house.
Empty, white, and unexplored
An upstairs, downstairs, hidden closets—
Nothing like the tiny condo I was used to
A brand new place to play, laugh, fall, cry,
It’s too familiar now.
I could walk it with blind eyes and
Tell you the stories of my childhood there.
Now, it’s all explored, all experienced, none too new.
Back then it was an adventure
And now, it’s just . . . home.