I grew up in
Southern California
Where my family
Ate home cooked
Meals together.

That world died
A horrible, slow death.
Murdered
Like in a horror movie—
A corporate hit job.
Bulldozers and chain saws
Killed it and
Dragged the corpses off
Without a trial.

The replacements were
Televisions,
Fast food,
Video games,
Internet;
Reality shows.

Back in that magical,
Childhood kingdom
Where kids cultivated imaginations
There was an orange grove
Across the street.

The tree man
In kaki pants
And black boots said
We could have
The ones on the ground.

My rule of thumb was simple:
Squat and look for kaki pants.

There’s nothing sweeter
Than untouched
Whale sized oranges
Knocked off a tree
With a stick.

Suck juice from naval first.

The groves
Became strip malls,
Cloned houses,
Condos;
Grade schools.

The fresh air
Turned purple—
The dirt covered
With dead
Streets and parking lots.

Those orange trees
Tore their roots
From the ground and
Migrated south of the border
Without a visa
Thinking of cheap labor
And short-term profits.

No wonder a couple of kids
Went nuts at Columbine.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...