Lying on his back under tall trees
he is also up there. He rills into thousands of twigs and branches,
is swayed back and forth,
as if in a catapult seat outflung in slow motion.
Standing down by the jetties . . .
My mother bites into a Big Mac and her glasses catch the reflection of a purple neon light somewhere behind me. It is June 1979, and we are in a food court at Los Angeles International Airport. My favourite song . . .