Holding up my hands, I’m not sure
of right and left. From my house,
a right leads me right to his door.
Take a left to the alternate route,
to a seat in the doctor’s waiting room.
My complaint is my poor sense
of direction; my sun resides at noon.
Right from there, the ocean’s expanse
holds Santa Monica at bay; left is UC
LA. Maybe they could help me learn
the coordinates of his geography.
The 10 to the 110 to the 5 and turn
right to my new one-bedroom. Moving
is in my nature, but so is getting lost.
I thought I’d finally stopped my roving,
having found my rightful home at last.
Can’t he trust the green light
of my compass? Must we be bereft?
I only write what I know is right,
thus: all that’s left is all that’s left.
—from Rattle #22, Winter 2004