|Jul/Aug 2002 • Poetry|
422 North Cherry, Tucson
Catty-cornered across the street University Stadium, events held us captive—Saturday football, track and field, big names like John Denver, the Flying Burrito Brothers, or maybe the Fifth Dimension—with cars parked on the sidewalk right up to the cement wall that elevated the teeny yard. We'd sit inside and pass a bowl, knowing the cops had enough to do. Sometimes a friend would sniff us out, come to stay instead of waiting in lines. If it got too loud or we hated the noise, the red Vespa carried us east to the canyon or the western desert or HoJo's for fried clams. An hour after every show was done, couples and clotted groups of rowdies rambled to their hot cars, only to honk and squeal back through the intersection to get home down Campbell Avenue or over to Speedway. I found a perfectly good pair of red pumps on the steps one morning, half a pack of Salem's, and a real nice Zippo lighter in the toes, but no one ever came back to get them. I figured whoever she was had traveled from exotic Tucumcari or Truth or Consequences and had plenty more where those came from.