1959

Hello, neighbor to my dead family.

A photo on a headstone,

a teenage boy, his hair in a pompadour,

collar rumpled,

smiling, facing the sun,

one of the neighborhood guys.

Dead at age 18, in the 1950s,

buried in the neighborhood.

Tono, the only name on the grave.

Japanese headstones stand at attention,

waiting for children to arrive,

and honor the ancestors.

Will this teenaged man stand forever,

waiting for his parents,

delirious with madness, filled with tears,

carrying flowers?

Each year, growing older, hair whiter,

skin more mottled

and translucent, back hunched.

Each year, memories fading like the

signal of an AM radio playing oldies,

as you drive away from Los Angeles.