Staring out the window of my rented room
I am on hold with the bank
when over the muffled din
of Musak I realize there is no place
on earth less amenable to poetry
than the Anaheim Hilton.
The nameless instruments
intended to sooth
remind me of nothing. They are allies
to the mirage of heat radiating
off the asphalt and irrigated turf.
Cartoons in place of an orchard.
The canvas constructed stalls
in the flea market across the street
waver in the hot wind—old men
are selling toys and tires of unknown origin.
Screams from the white kids
in the hotel pool rise over screams
from the Mexican kids in the dusty parking lot.
I’m getting out. I’m hanging up.
One last shuttle ride to the happiest place
on earth. One last thigh-to-thigh
bounce-bounce with sweaty strangers
and their deflated, day-after-Christmas kids.
at the driver’s lined forehead
in the rearview mirror.