To A Throne in Monterey, I say Goodbye
I stood on the runway we used to watch from the rooftop in Lawn chairs. Where we ruled matchbox planes that grew bigger with the flick of a finger. They used to rumble above us as we laughed at the sulking shadows in windows, ignoring the cipher of flashing red and blue farewell lights. Standing there on that concrete slab, blinking at the intermittent singles, I tried to see that shingled throne, but could only see the heroin sunsets of last week, the choppy bay that teased us with enthralling gazes of Santa Cruz, tried to hear the entrenching roots of steadfast friends, but could only hear eerie fog horns that stretched across the grass, the sassy seals, and dried out conversations pressed against the creases of our minds. I tried to reach out and halve myself between the tugging sides of both the coasts and failed, eyes staling out in creeping Monterey fog. There was no Venus light, no blinding moon or crashing waves. There was only Mercury, poised and ready to go away. Businessmen