Parking Lot of Dreams

Out in the parking lot
next to all the rvs and
bar-be-cue hibachis
we watched mi madrina
make her special orange juice
that was only for adults.

jefferson airplane soared on the radio,
even the chi-lites sung a song.

hibachi haze blanketed us
w/a sweet sweet smell
as we threw the football
signed by the heroes:
branch, billetnikoff, and plunkett.
each pass we lofted
between the parked cars
we hoped would erase
all the shit happening
back home:
the idea that
mom was struggling
paying the bills,
parents battling over mutilated love,
and our teachers barking that we can’t write the capital
Q correctly in cursive.

we would weave
between the plymouths, the dodges and camaros,
dream of being
the acrobatic trapeze warriors
that crunched and maimed to come to this arena,
a coliseum in Oakland,
dressed as darth vader,
overstuffed soldiers, sea of silver and black.
all eyes on them.
not on Wonderful World of Disney.
just to watch them
compress human flesh into a tiny space
and bomb to
score six. just six.
now that would be better
than multiplication tables, handwriting exercises, and pippi longstocking
any day.
(they have control over their lives like they do on the field, right?)

11/4/96;9/2002
©Robert Karimi

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