Here there were rumors of Lakers, their names inscribed
on the insides of eyelids, backs of t-shirts and jerseys.
Palm trees branchless nearly to the very top, and then ex-
ploding against night sky high above the LA River, rushing
seaward through the dense undergrowth of our imaginations.
At the intersection of Pickford and Hayworth, we stood stock
still, expecting . . . well, what? Do you remember? Some
tour bus, I guess, touring the streets named after stars. Two
days before, we'd been slipping the ashes of your husband
into the calm waters of El Pacifico, just off the jetty down
at Marina del Rey on the the Sunday morning of Fathers' Day,
scull crews and yachtlings gliding by--and there! That dark
shadowy thing in the water! Was it a skate? And then there was
that new boy, the boy of your boy, patting the plastic of the bag
with the ashes of your husband inside, saying goodbye to Grandpa,
as urged to by his mom, your boy's girl, her Aussie parents down
from Cupertino, five and a half hours by road. And after all that,
brunches for all at Bamboozle, just out of the sun for a change.
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