Jennifer Lagier- Three Poems & Photos

Fade to Gray

An obsolete church camp lurks
in fading memory behind
America’s last home town.
Rotten tent canvas has been
replaced by board and batten.
Along skinny streets, quaint Victorians
squeezed cheek to jowl descend
to granite shores, misty in and out tides.

Today’s teens hate the place, complain
there’s nothing to do, no community
center, skate park, or Internet café,
just staid post office, empty store fronts,
hole-in-the-wall restaurants, all closed
by ten p.m., not one lounge or bar.
The god-fearing still dictate temperance,
make sure the breathing adhere to dead rules.

Ranch Wagon

The repurposed wagon,
wheels planted and rotting
since the last roundup,
advertises a quaint inn,
its wooden bed transformed
to geranium planter.
Mission Ranch sprawls
against a green hill
underneath eucalyptus.
White cabins that once
provided bunk space
for cattle wranglers
have been transformed
into partitioned rentals.
Luxury cars line the driveway.
Wooly sheep rub their fleece
against a ruined farm cart,
below an immense weeping willow.
Pastureland rolls from here to blue ocean.
Behind closed doors, tourists,
honeymoons, pricey adultery.

The Point

Reddened aloes push unruly
tentacles through rustic slats,
hang like faux poinsettias
or stiff prom corsages,
accentuate backdrop sky.

We grow resigned
to worsening drought,
brilliant sun without end,
nonproductive clouds,
another dry year.

Staid yuccas menace
passing walkers with silvery
stiletto point leaves,
compete with a spill
of creeping hottentot fig.

Incoming shore mist
drips from cypress,
rubs insidious salt
into rocky earth’s wounds.
Only hardy succulents thrive.