I used to drive by two-storey buildings
In old Chevrolet with automatic transmission.
And stare at pink-clad skies through the windows
Forgetting traffic lights that turn green at cross-road.

I was driving to my uncle’s house via
Orange Grove, thinking how the mountains of San Gabriel
Resemble the sun-burnt hills of our childhood, where
I saw you, not knowing what would soon become of us.

Someone beeped and I awoke of my dream,
Switching stations and taking the first right turn.
“Cry me a river” played with a cracking noise
Of the radio that I had to punch to produce a sound.

I arrived and the journey turned out to be two blocks away.
I watched him picking the blood orange trees,
And we drank wine and spoke of sports, women and politics.
Before all topics were exhausted and the night fell on us.

“Did you know”, - he said breaking the silence, -
“that houses in these parts of the world
Are built in such a way to fall down
Easily in case of an earthquake?”

“Everything was planned to break down easily” -
I laughed, driving away the mosquitoes, -
“Houses, kettles, feelings,
Hearts and bottles of beer”

When I took a cab back to my place later that day,
I suddenly craved to see you again.

Sunset at Pasadena - like a sunburned girl in a pink skirt
That passed along, yet stayed in memory forever.

28/10/2022