Oregon is a long way from Arizona.
You long for the coast, but sleep in the desert.
What has Arizona to do with Oregon or Idaho?
No place to stay but on mean streets.
Not easy street or Apache Trail, not Broadway or Ironwood,
but any street where you sleep.
You borrow my purple pen
matching your purple phone.
And I wonder how Oregon’s purple rain
turned you inside out.
Estranged from home,
everyone steals from you
even the hotel desk clerk.
People are kinder in Oregon.
My father is in Idaho.
And the complaints you lodge against mean people
make me wish I were Howard Schultz, and this really was your third place.
I would offer you a job or buy you an eye.
Or if you chose not to work, I wouldn’t care.
Maybe one time, a street, avenue, boardwalk, circle, drive or road
will deliver something good to you.
A new half set of teeth, or an old family member.
A drop of purple rain, or human kindness,
so that slowly, bone by bone
and nerve by optic nerve
you could piece it all together
and buy a purple raincoat or hat
that would color the desert and
let you see.