jane My face is always misty
by the time I hear the seventh song
because it reminds me
of the bus ride up Malaysian dirt roads
through fields of palm trees
(instead of contrived corn fields
like Californiaís)

Ignoring my father,
embarrassed that his mouth fell open
while he slept;

Looking out upon passing green
and grey raindrops,
not yet forming on the glass.
I pressed my hand against it
and tucked blond hair behind one ear
and tongued the gap
of a should-be canine tooth.

And I thought about where I would rather be,
a dirty apartment in Fresno,
chainsmoking and tapping my fingernails
on battered couch cushions
with his head in my lap,
and the smooth drum beat
on the radio.
what's it to you?
who go