The Mountain is on Fire

It’s breathing and I’m raining;

tasting creosote in my soul.

In that old abandoned building

down town by Ronstadt Station

your pop punk band would play:

Chuck Taylors, candy colored beaded bracelets

and chick pants.

I miss those summers:

the De Anza drive-in,

Gates pass, Fruit Rollups,

above ground pools and

boom boxes.

Running barefoot over wet asphalt,

my jeans would cling to my thighs,

my red tank top soaked to my chest

we'd splash in the greasy rainwater.

Now it's July 4th

and the mountain is on fire.