Fallout (Crank 3)

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.