by Bill Caldwell

It’s not Kentucky, no green hills. These are brown and dry, sagebrush blows and scatters. I smell eucalyptus from my open car window, see twelve-lane freeways flow up to mountains or wash a wide swath south toward the desert. I choose city streets, wind down the canyon until I’m in Echo Park, then on Wilshire Boulevard and onto Sunset Boulevard into Beverly Hills, beyond to the beach. It takes a tank of gas and the rest of my cash. I leave the want ads on the seat and leave my car. Sea breezes blow. I see him surfing, blond hair, suntanned, as his V-shaped torso dips into waves. I sit on the beach. The surfer slides away.

Bill Caldwell lives with his husband in Asheville, North Carolina. His poems have been published in Artemis and The Great Smokies Review and can be heard on KAXE radio. Before retirement, he worked as a nurse and as a marriage and family therapist. He utilized the power of poetry and storytelling in several clinical settings.