in 1973 we were living under the freeway
in a median triangle where they let the bushes grow
there were ten of us, including crazy lou
we scurried out in the night to pick the city clean
and retreated to our freeway bush in the day
we each cleared out rooms careful to keep the roofs closed
passageways well-worn lead to rooms and loot storage
in the common room near the pylon we would gather
to drink sour lemon wine and talk about the night’s adventures
soon to retreat to our private leafy sanctuaries
in my room i had a kerosene heater and a poster of nancy sinatra
blankets and clothes and a letter from my brother
who got a job as a security guard in san mateo california
crazy lou brought back a haul one morning six cases of red wine
stolen from the city planner’s birthday party at the park
the freeway bush was a happy land for days
we crouched through the passageways to greet each other
like a house full of friends all performing our art
there were noble moments and i felt like we almost had something
some movement some feeling something that would last for us all
the stolen wine ran out and the cops busted three of us
the next day the freeway bush was leveled by city workers
and i moved back to ohio
to collect pop bottles
i lived in an old museum gardener’s shed
and i thought about the bush a lot
i missed everyone
my little green room
the sound of birds

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