A fine spring day. The first, really.

Realizing exactly what slouched

toward White Sands

to be born and is already grown.

Is getting old. I'm driven to get out

while the sun shines here

in a calmer city a life away,

where the perfect sun gets tangled

in the branches of predictably ho-hum trees,

and whatever it is that I’ve

been dreaming lies asleep,

making everything

I’ve thought a bit too late--

but that’s okay. I did find out

what’s in a name, by god,

and I gotta say it isn’t much.

Still, a good ol’ rummage through piles

of ‘50s junk’s a trip, though one discovers

few if any homey bargains in the heaps.

I think whatever glitters

isn’t gold, and nothing ever smells as sweet,

no matter how high it’s priced,

no matter what some historians write.