2 stanza poem

Loma Prieta

I. Rambling down the Embarcadero,
Past the years-old roadwork signs,
Francis slides across the hot leather bench seat
Of our copper-toned Catalina.
He kisses my cheek. I push him away, pull him back.
When he asks me how I feel about children and old age,
The pavement begins to pulse in waves
And the last thing I remember
Is the brown plastic dashboard shaking as if to explode.
The rupture felt like rapture,
A 7.0 at least.

II. The road was never finished,
They paved over the crumbled concrete, erected strip malls.
Papa buried me in the vineyard.
I converse with the grapes now.
Francis still walks down King Street,
Still climbs the dark hill.
He calls my name to the seagulls
When the bourbon gets the best of him,
Remembering how Loma Prieta stole everything we had.