My street just went on vacation. Thought Cabo San Lucas might be great--grab a few shots of tequila, witness a wet t-shirt contest, maybe find a little calle and go curb to gutter.
Hell, the street hadn't had a break since the 1920s, before the Great Depression. Here it was, witness to foreclosure after foreclosure, and now in the last few years, it's carried another wave of people sweeping out as banks said hey you're not making the payments, vamoose.
Rains, tears, and U-Haul tires fell upon my street. So did the sun in a great global warming kind of way, and the street became fragile. Potholes developed, enough to fill the Disney Hall. Mexico would do the street well. My street petitioned the city, received permission, and it's gone.
And now it's been weeks. My street sent me an email saying its heart has been ripped out. It had fallen for a cute corra sendero right near the ocean, fun for a few nights, but the gal wanted to go north with an important American boulevard. My street tried to stand up for itself, but of course all it was good at was laying down. Sand in its face, my street fell upon a string of bars where drunken tourists pee on it every night.
I wrote back that maybe it's having a serotonin uptake problem. Or maybe it just needs to go shopping. My street said it was sick, spewing from all of its holes. Only drink helps. I asked did it have a health plan? No, of course not. It had been waiting for Obama and the Democrats, but the public option was being booted out. The Republicans said let the streets fend for themselves. My street can't even make it back from Mexico.
What's left in front of my house now is full of dying weeds, the remainder wishing it could move to Malibu.
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