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Bakersfield Poem�

Back home again
lying in the bed
where my father died.

September and 92 degrees
the same old feeling in this house
like the murder of something.

the flat and endless streets
lead nowhere in particular
and the neighborhoods look
much the same
as they did ten or fifteen years ago
just different faces in windows
different names on mailboxes

Dreams don't go far here
they rise awhile like balloons
until the heavy sky
pushes them down.

Still, it feels like
a home of sorts.

People sit on porches
and in garages
and in chairs on the lawn
just as they used to
blank faced
drinking beer
talking of things
that make me sad.

And there is a part of me that wants
to join them
to hide here among them
in some muddled half life
with nothing left to dream.

There is a heavy thirst upon me
and no bar within walking distance.

This place smells more like america
than anywhere I've ever been.

-William Taylor Jr.

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