A pepper tree ahead of me appears
a graceful drape above an antique truck,
reminding me of Chula Vistan years
when our suburban hormones ran amok,
when we were husbanded like citrus trees
in Cinderella homes on furrowed blocks,
our courses tract in cul-de-sac degrees
designed for safety, bumpered against shocks.
Of trucks Ford built in 1952
I am reminded when I look on us:
in need of restoration, and a few
indulgences, by patch or paint or truss.
Inside yet drives a questing reach in me,
revitalized beneath a pepper tree.