I was walking down Laguna road
past the military base
I walked so far
five miles past the fruit stand
ten past PCH 1,
no one picks you up there anymore
Walking so long it seemed a dream,
passing by migrant workers in the field
Work without shade the price of knowing only Espaniol
I asked on Don de esta populous? uno, dos tres?
he said tres, ended up being sincos
I walked on
and soon came to a man dead in the road
he appeared to have died of a broken heart
checking his pockets I found
shells from the ocean, flowers from the road,
a broken coyote jawbone,
a backpack full of broken dreams, and sorrow burdening
Checking my pockets I found the same
and wondered what his name was
for I no longer remember
Soon a man named Damon picked me up
he was a history buff
with jetty black hair and a dog named Winston,
sharing tragic eyes when he mentioned his name
I suppose the stigma had weighed upon him
I still dont remember my name
perhaps if I ask someone
they will have the same