Because It Is Moraga

 

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The freeway is far away.

Only two routes in and out of town,

and the traffic hour really means traffic hour.

 

No thieves like to visit Moraga,

escape route is either, or,

even I know how to block

and capture the bad guys.

 

At night no one comes out,

there was no bar I knew of in town.

 

One night my wife drove kids home

from visiting grandma,

it was late, kids needed to pee,

she really sped up,

police stopped her near St Mary’s College.

She told the cop the truth,

he took a look, saw the kids, dropped the charge,

hurriedly let her go.

Because it is Moraga.

 

When hour just about to pass by,

wind or no wind,

we could hear the bell ring from St Mary’s.

And baby kids can walk by the trail to the nursery,

Mulberry Preschool still standing,

same size, same height as 50 years ago.

And we are still talking about our old neighbors

and their children,

and ours works with theirs

in the same school now.

Because it is Moraga.

People’s count stays the same since 1975.

 

The smiling Buddha

at Chef Chao did not grow tall

or heavier, same smile, same waiter

as when our kids were tiny.

 

And I can still see the olive tree

in front of my old house

grows in a perfect shape,

shields the multicolored impatiens

around its root.

 

Along Rheem Boulevard,

the plateau, no condos, no houses built,

not like any other town;

hundreds, thousands swallowed the sky.

 

Over the hill,

I can still smell the same air

as half a century ago,

I can see the same moon,

and she seems to recognize me too.

Same library, same theater,

same Round Table Pizza,

and I do not need a time machine.