A self-confessed teen casa nova darts from a Chase ATM, whistling
a song about plenty, chasing a twenty into El Camino Real.
A Mexican lady, in town two months, sets her bags on a bench at a bus
stop. A tank-top girl answers her: “Wolfe is nine stops down El Camino Real.”
From San Diego to Sonoma, every so often, a mission bell hangs
like a lamp illuminating monks walking along El Camino Real.
In Whole Foods Market, a sport-jacketed, gray-haired gentleman invites a fair
cashier, ringing his kale, to co-row the slow lane up El Camino Real.
In Sleep Train, a serious, muscled man, blinking, tape-measures a king mattress,
his girl, in shades, ogling a Tesla turning off El Camino Real.
How that woman driving a red BMW laughs, a Bach sonata
fluttering up and uttering bloom-flute-bloom over El Camino Real.
Traffic slows for a bearded man pushing a shopping cart south, the far right lane,
his head back, his song casual: “We’re all so small on El Camino Real.”
Did he leave the radio on? That man standing by a dented Ford Escort,
crying. Inventing what could have been when just across El Camino Real.
At Chevy’s, a blond boy of six, holding a yellow crayon, pines, “Where’s the king?”
“Eat your taco, Johann.” His father’s glance points: “He’s on El Camino Real.”