Benton Ave.

There is a hole in the road.

Beneath the road, through the hole, I see a dried up creek bed.

Shrubs and bushes grow where water once flowed.

I step down from the curb and my foot is cushioned by rotting leaves.

They compress and receive my weight with purpose and grace.

I smell their scent.

Reminiscent of a place in this lifetime I haven’t much spent.

I smell something fried.  La Santisima.

The breeze, like ice water, mixed with the radiant sunshine, feels like a heart too big for its chest.

A tear falls from a place of longing joy, like home.

Between me and the man with a handkerchief in his hand are a car door, a handrail, a tree and a fence.