Through your kitchen window, you see your neighbor,
the asphalt seal-coater, driving his truck with the trailer
go up the gray winter street. The roof-vent on the trailer is open.
You ask why it's open ... is the trailer full of fumes, heat, dreams?
The big, yellow bus emerges beneath you as you saw an opening in its roof.
You experience clear, eucalyptus air and laughter as your father helps below
in the California clarity where you and wife have parked the bus of dreams.
The bus wouldn't fit on the neat steep curvy street
where your father lives in the beautiful hillside house
with the deck, the flowers, tiny green front yard, his crumbling marriage
suburbanized across the Golden Gate.
You twice cut openings through the yellow roof and the inside ceiling rainbow,
two metal sheets sandwiching wires in '50s insulation to the back lights.
You cut the wires accidentally only once when you discover they are there.
You repair them, learning school bus electricity from the simple teacher, Accident.
Lying back in the beanbag chair on astroturf in your living room --
stopped en route in the desert, on the shore, the Tetons --
vent lids, screens and cranks float in a rainbow above.
You look down again while sawing, see your dad, then decades later
turn awake in the gray morning.
2:17 PM 1/16/2010