The scent from apple orchards
lingered even when cheap ranches cropped up like weeds.
In one attached garage, a dark carless cave,
the boy Steve Jobs tinkered with gizmos, gadgets
wires and whatnots.
Decades later, techies bulldozed
the humdrum, paid millions for land to construct
castles with turrets toppling
on postage stamp plots, flush to curbs, locked.
From my Airbnb I ignore the castles, fall in love
with bougainvillea buddying up to lilacs,
with pines married to palms and wheel my grandchild
in pristine air, hypnotized
by the Valley's soup of Peets, Starbucks, orange trees,
bocce courts, communal gardens,
folks smiling, hello hi hello on paths in the parks.
At Sammy's Cafe, a biker swings his phone,
shouts, California should secede.
Is this a possibility? If so, I will steal some cardboard
from Target's discards, build
a shack under Highway 85, repeat, knit one, purl two
sing with the click clack,
spin lilac scarves, apple red teapot cozies,
whatnots for the uber rich.