On A Steam Train, West Toward L.A.

On a sleek silver
train the Super Santa Fe Chief,
that whooshed through
the Painted Desert,
I was lifted into grace--
my first diary.
The fiery pages battled
ignorance.
Should I have been more
than a tender fourteen year
old full of energy?
Standing in the steam
just outside the doors that
coupled cars,
I walked through the
dust of earlier years,
at Woody's house,
his three daughters gone on
Beatle recordings.
That very night,I had
stepped up in the train's
Dome Car where
eight young teen boys
played cards in the back.
I stayed in my seat,
with a pad and pen,
staring out at a
deep black velvet sky,
knowing no star up there.
I bought a pair of salt &
pepper shakers in Amarillo,
Texas. Then Albequerque.

My ignorance passed as
years went,
but the cherry popsicle
moments--our destination:
my cousin's Santa Monica
house where the
barbeque grill was
always popping fire
as the surf boards
stayed propped up in the
garage,
the pineapple trees
revealing another land--
I will cherish, still.

Where was Chinese Graumman's?
The Hollywood Race Track?
The Smorgasboard?
The Brown Derby?
Knottsberry Farm?
On islands of fun.

From beach to sandy beach
scattered photos had me
in my fadist's apparel--
a dotted-swiss bikini
I got at the May Company.
I was all alone on a shopping
spree on a sunny, lazy afternoon
when '65 was '65.

Slice my wind-struck memories
the nostalgical Odetta lingering
by the sea--
and you notice the same thing--
a dream to be a poetess.
I'd given up on romantic nights
to lie crawled in the mind of
another author.
Rejecting failure, with the
visceral will to take on giants,
I read through the grand sunsets.

I now lounge in my backyard
wasps in my breath,
tales to tell that none will
know.