No Bumps on Eleventh

Think of it as an alternate route

running parallel to traffic-choked Lincoln Blvd

not that I care about congestion

but Eleventh is scenic with dazzling lawns

and canopies of ficus trees embracing overhead

while reptilian roots slither from tree to tree

half in, half out of their minds, like myself

and soon jacarandas will grace

a few blocks of Eleventh with a dazzle of purple

reminding me of the color bad prose can get.

There you are Eleventh, all four and half miles of you,

from the golf course in Venice

to the coral trees on San Vicente

the north and south of you, a paved green belt

where one creates their pace without speed bumps

unlike those other parallel paths avoiding the Americana

of Lincoln Blvd with its quick lubes and fast food,

car wash, Big Macs and road rage to the on-ramp.

Oh Eleventh, a secret no longer, you are the fork

Yogi Berra said to take, less trod, for those who think

they don’t conform as they leave the herd

and find themselves part of another herd,

in a single lane plus one for bikes

where one might ponder and commune

far from the madding, close to what once was.