At the Last Bookstore
At the last bookstore, Anne Frank still smiles
on the shelf,
marked down to sell.
No one is buying tonight.
Down
the
road
beyond the miles
of cinder block walls
hiding
suburban backyards
the bricks
the color of old bandaids
comes the bright tumble
of perennial California citrus
oranges, lemons, grapefruit
swollen on the branch
and smashed
on the sidewalk
a careless harvest
down that road
past the fruit no one is hungry enough to pick
to eat
someone
keeps spraypainting
a swastika
on the county-owned storage trailer
as big as a railroad car
parked forever
on the …
