Around these parts the freeways take a “the,”
and most the avenues are boulevards.
The hills wear tumbleweed and slides of scree,
and ice plant holds the turf in sloped backyards.
Here every avocado tastes divine,
the citrus never fails, the ocean’s warm
enough for skin, the weather’s always fine
(unless you’re so perverse you like a storm).

I think the cars are cleaner. It appears
that drivers share the roadways with some grace.
But I desire colder atmosphere,
and views that can’t be any other place
than home, where we deem avocados good
that wouldn’t sell around this neighborhood.