Even when I was living there, entrenched
in the bustle of its chaotic skirts,
finding not much hope – mostly evidence
that the entire world had gone mad, or worse –
the west coast seemed a little bit surreal;
And the dreams I held so tight as a child
never seemed to once gel or congeal
there. Like a desert, it was strange and wild.
Now, the prospect of a long visit out there
fills my soul with vexing trepidation;
I am not of that place now – I have grown.
And the things from my youth I used to care
about – old friends and past situations?
From that arid clime, my heart has long flown.
22 DEC 2002
