It may be the gateway

to Yosemite’s stark glory,

but unlike the Sierra

sneaking up behind it,

the city of Fresno is an

ucking fugly collection of

east-leaning buildings,

blade-bare lawns, and

half-digested asphalt.

Cool enough now, almost

Christmas, but hotter than

Sahara sand in summer.

Really can’t wait to live here.

RIGHT TURN, LEFT TURN, RIGHT …

Do that a dozen or so times,

you end up in the broken-down

neighborhood I now call home.

The houses are fifties era. Built

around the time kids still did

duck-under-your-desk drills,

as if that could protect them

from nuclear bombs. Ha! Maybe

that’s what happened to this

neighborhood. Wonder if I should

worry about radiation. Maybe

wrap myself in aluminum foil.

At last (so soon?) we pull up

in front of a totally inconspicuous

place. (Not!) “It’s fricking pink.”

Salmon pink, with rotten red trim.

Tags: Ellen Hopkins Crank
Source: readsnovelonline.net