Yellow

treeMood: Industrious
Drinking: Green Tea

even the dust here
is weary and
bored
covering the brown men
in their roadside shacks
with a visible layer of
despair.

dreams get smaller
in dinuba. children
hope for chicken nuggets
and plastic birthday
gifts. everyone goes to church
and WalMart on Sundays
to worship
in the air-conditioned aisles
of capitalism and canned ham.
the 24-hour supercenter
fills an entire field
where the transplanted
landscape palms
look dehydrated
and uncomfortable.
across the street, all the
stores stay closed, the windows
shuttered with yellow dust.

the air smells
of ennui and
nectarines. it is four
hours from home and
a wide world away where
all the bumper stickers
are redwhite and
conservative and the only time
brown and white ever mingle
is when money changes hands.

on the side of the road
I pay a brown man two
dollars for a box of bruised
purple plums. I plan
to say gracias instead
of thankyou but it seems
so condescending. when
the moment comes
I panic.
I keep my head down
and mutter merci
which helps no-one. I feel
exceptionally pale and
unaccountably guilty.
there’s nothing left to do but
drive away.

-Lo, who really is exceptionally pale.

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