Vallejo Street

Remember the plums? The yellow ones
ripened first. They fell on the path
and we squashed them under our Adidas
Shell-Toes. There were pieces of toast
among the flowers; Mom threw them out
the window when they burned.

Red plums followed the yellows and a
few months later came blackberries.
It was such a novelty to grow fruit
in the city. We ate taquitos and
built a swing. The house was small
and I slept in a closet.

Behind the building was some graffiti
that Alex may have done. I should have
asked; he never lies to me. Next door
was a lady whose garden I snuck into.
She smelt of noodles and might have
stolen our cats. Mom got married in
May of one year and away we went.




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