These East Coast Tourists
with their Broadway, their Madison Avenue,
with their sky scrapers, scandals, crime rate,
with their stone houses in Connecticut—
I see them strolling down Cabrillo Boulevard
in March, here on a business trip
or convention, or vacation.
Sleeves rolled back, cheeks flush with fresh squeezed,
they walk along the bike path all the way to the harbor,
amazed at the last standing Sambo’s,
the Santa Barbara pastels,
bouganvillea, palm trees, birds of paradise,
Hispanic gardeners.
You hear them talk about the change
of seasons, how they’d never live without that.
You offer lemons, limes right off your backyard tree.
They accept, “how lovely,”
and comment on the heavy scent of honeysuckle
(they have allergies) and the price of gas.
They tell you how deep the latest snow
back home,
as if they’d made it fall themselves.