1.  North Slope

That city in the distance burns—

not just neon and streetlights,

but the urban incandescence

of minds on fire…

Someone’s always parked up here

letting anger flicker and die out,

someone tasting ashes.

This morning it’s just me,

watching haze like smoke rise

from last night’s conflagration.

2. Summit

I used to take this road at night,

blinded by halogen high beams

someone malicious refused to dim.

But you learn the curves by heart

and drive much too fast

without giving it a thought

so that your mind can travel

its own dark, road-killing

jackrabbits no one cares about,

ignoring crosses that flash by

with their tacky plastic flowers

and names already too faded to read.

3.  South Slope

On a cloudy morning, nightshade

(of some sort) holds the light,

more glow than glare,

absorbed from a waning moon.

The white, death angel trumpet flowers,

silent so far, have no scent

and nothing you could taste

that augurs delirium…

Waifs who used to strip the hills,

a fad, have gone back to street drugs,

and these weeds flourish again,

ignored by creatures that know better.

    Green and Shadow by Francine Witte

Don Thompson was born and raised in Bakersfield, California, and has lived in the southern San Joaquin Valley for most of his life.  Thompson has been publishing poetry since the early sixties, including a dozen books and chapbooks.  For more information and links to his publications, visit his website San Joaquin Ink (don-e-thompson.com).