Passing Hyperion

1

The car lurches forward on the 101, red snake

traffic through downtown. My father

doesn’t drive anymore, but he conjured this city,

my labyrinth, our treasure—this is his town.

A few neon signs blink on, each a glyph

of light, and we’re in the early dark

November, 1960. He’s at the wheel

driving east, me riding shotgun, truck

unloaded in Cudahy, Commerce, Norwalk,

one more stop in Boyle Heights, and cruise

the Golden State all the way home.

Huggy Boy on the radio, darkness settling

over the Marlboro Man lifting a cigarette

to his handsome lips, over Jesus Saves

across an entire rooftop, each letter blazing,

Time to Bowl in aqua, Carlin Room in flowing

gold, the Four-level Interchange coming up,

Smart Women Cook with Gas, Manny, Moe, or

Jack stands tall, heavy curved Aladdin brow,

muscles bulging from his polo—never could

tell the Pep Boys apart—our fools’ paradise all

around us, red-winged horse over the Mobil

station, Wiltern Theater green as sea glass,

spotlights angling off like egrets. My father’s

hands, work-thickened, curve the wheel,

scattering of dark hair across the back

of his palms, thumbnail bruised black,

salt tang of sweat—the way I love the world

is not separate from the way I love my father,

not separate from darkness sifting down,

nightdust tingeing what’s left of the sky.