CURTIS HAYES

AQUA BLUE METAL FLAKE

My first bike
was a swap meet Stingray
scratched and chipped
with two flat tires
and a scuffed banana seat.
But the chrome was good
and the blue paint sparkled.

For the kids on my street
every vacant lot was the Baja 1000,
every three-house wheelie
was Evel Knievel
and every short jump off a ramp
made from plywood and bricks
was a stadium launch over 30 school busses.

As I slog through another week
of dead traffic on the 405
locked in with cars that all look the same
drivers either glum or raging,
my blue eyes stare back at me
in the mirror.

I have never found anything
that made me feel as good as
a second-hand bicycle
in aqua blue metal flake
brilliant in the midday sun
riding with my friends
our faded canvas deck shoes
locked onto the pedals
the Eagles harmonizing from
every passing car radio,
questioning nothing
because we had everything.

THE SABLE MOVIE RANCH

We finished the shots with
20 minutes of daylight to spare.
We broke down cameras, light stands
cut generators, coiled electric cables.
As we started loading the trucks
12 wild horses
came in through the pines,
shambling slowly and single file
through what had been our set.
The phones came out, the video,
the social media imperative.
The sun was low
shooting gold
through the tall pines.
I kept my phone in my pocket
and watched them in wonder.
They were healthy
unbridled
fearless
better than us.

Unconcerned with our attention
and technology,
they moved onto a dirt path
leading to a dry and peeling
old west ghost town
before disappearing.
We quickly loaded white cube trucks
with the rest of the grip and electric.
If we were lucky
we would make the studio
in an hour.

A year later
I watched a massive wildfire from my couch
as I ate day-old pizza.
I sipped a beer, watching as fire crews desperately
tried to save new housing tracts in the hills.
Helicopters dropped water, to little effect.
A collapsing ghost town,
the star of a thousand cowboy movies
and western TV shows
was not a priority.
Roaring through the 450-acre ranch,
the flames consumed the saloon,
the jail, the hotel
the brothel
the black smith
the livery stable
and all the surrounding pines.
A reporter shoved a microphone
into the face of a tired, ash-covered caretaker,
“When we heard the trees crackling
behind the ridge, we knew it was over.”

I thought about the wild horses
and still I think about the horses,
hoping that somehow, they made it out,
that they are winding their way
through the hills of Santa Clarita
uninterested in human toil
handsome
fearless
better than any of us.

Curtis Hayes has worked in sawmills, greasy spoons, and as a grip, gaffer, and set builder in film production. A native of Southern California, he likes eating chili cross-legged on a beach towel. His poetry has been featured in numerous small press journals and anthologies.