Urban Spring

April short but mighty
we have no peach flowers
only ads promising youth
Spring in the city
without much ado
we wait

Urban Summer

August heavy like old carpet
we have nothing to say
watching her burn in
metaphor of history
our skin dry like sand

Urban Winter

December mild like tea
lights on palm trees
snow on Hallmark cards
Christ on Broadway
no wisemen found
nights are longer
like our hunger

One Good Man

When I ran, I would run to MacArthur Park. At the foot of Downtown split into two by Wilshire Boulevard. When I was a little girl, my grandfather used to take me to MacArthur Park. And after we were done walking around feeding ducks, he would take me to Langer’s for a pastrami sandwich on rye with a kosher pickle. We did not talk much. In between searching his…