On that San Clemente, hillside, my aery-headed Mitty grandfather tended his remuda.
His motion-sensor’d cavalry of decapitated vacuum-cleaner-motor deer-spookers had woke us up.
There was the marine layer patio parade to celebrate their victory.
Citizens were aglow since the cavalry had saved the fucking roses guarding the birdfeeder, while the unvaunted heirloom tomatoes leered from around the corner of the rented house.
So there we were, awake, technically.
The night before my grandmother had taken her scotch, her Siamese and then new-to-me TIA in her diabetic float-footed stride.
Up Highway 1 on Dana Point, their son, my dad, cooked like a girl, in a apron, 20 years before the fag word foodie was born. Always fashion-forward the fat-fuck.