When in Long Beach by Daniel Romo‏

Kiss homeless on foreheads while they sleep on the knoll
in front of the library at City Hall; drink their dreams dry

and spit out seeds from their nightmares. Wipe the soil from their
brows; grind it into skin. Tatted euphemisms yet to come.

Tiptoe, naked through the ghetto; genitalia is universal: neutral,
and you’re less likely to be mistaken for having gang ties.

Ignore single mothers’ cries, curbside memorials,
and barricaded cul-de-sacs. They occur too frequently.

Sift sand on the shore smirking at the sea, once cerulean currents
of non-conformity now jaded, gagged, bound by breakwater.

Sit Indian-style in garages, sifting through “medicinal” haze
lifting to the rafters. And chew on songs birthed from wombs

of empty Corona bottles pardoning indie bands swum mainstream.
Follow the gulls.

They know where the best places in town are to eat.