Life on Olympic Boulevard

Rebecca C. Campos LIFE ON OLYMPIC BOULEVARD


I am crying again driving down Olympic Blvd.
I am passing the faded stucco duplex and forcing myself to turn
and acknowledge the smiling children at play.
I am recognizing the overgrown sycamore,
my mother’s sole protector from a madman.
I am noticing stuck-up Rosemary’s house now has
imposing apartment units propped up in the front yard.
I am wondering if our bedroom window still contains nails
of crucifixion penetrating its frame.
I am stopping at the corner where the only source of compassion
appeared as a smile on a gas station attendant’s face.
I am venturing down the trash laden alley.
I am cringing as the garage comes into view.
I am asking if any other little girls had to
sleep in their garage and pee on the dark damp floor.
I am reliving the nightmares of my childhood.
I am willing to make them mine.
I am exiting the alley, the house, the street.
I am leaving it all behind.
I am moving forward, toward a string of green lights up ahead.