and once again, the hills of Southern California
go back to brown
and the dry brush piles up in the corner
this place is arid most of the time
and any vagaries in the weather
feel like a broken promise
or a delusion
like a man with $3 left to his name
ordering a brandy and a steak dinner in a brasserie.
with every savory bite he is transported away from his reality
until the strike of the bill
i am like the green grass on these dry hills.
i do not belong here
in this desert.