oceano avenue

just above the shore by the city college
is a downhill slope called oceano avenue;
the students scuttle like insects
carrying beers
and
backpacks (filled with more beers),
running house to house
pad to pad to drink those beers
with half-naked intelligent girls
on the brink of their glorious stage of fecundity.

every week some poor student finds his room
on the street:
the ripped-gooey mattress of a jiz-stained futon
smothered with his or her
school papers
a boring book or two
dirty running shoes
clothes not suitable for life and all of its
demanding cliches.

I saunter and hope to see (most likely) his reaction,
to hear their side of the story
as their bedroom takes a shower in the afternoon
sprinklers,
and washes off the early morning dew
and whatever else.

what happened to their relationship?
why the quarrel with their roommates?
did they eat the last pop tart for the last time?
did they not pay rent for the first, second or
third time?
or were they too loud on the nights they were
supposed to be quiet?
kiss a lady or guy already taken?

but as much as I want to hear and see some
real life drama
blood and tears
teeth and hair
shouting and screaming
tongues of suds and barely,
I always keep on…

…down oceano avenue
where the students scuttle like horny little insects
staring through the light of the now setting sun.

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