a fire engine screaming
a private airplane humming
playing my headache like a harmonica
there is ancient treasure buried
below this sandbox
the pre-earthquake motherload
old, plastic faced treasure hunter
sunbathing on bench
with his partner
plastic surgery buddha
white face of stone lotion
fountain of turtles
like hand claps
the oracle of cliches circles
"there is nothing new under the sun,
that is true," he says
groups gathered in grass,
bright saturday population
a new crowd of kids descending like locusts
a motorcycle spits up
the treasure is almost found
but it's time to go
there's always next time
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