Orrin Schwab's "California" follows a couple who have known each other since childhood and have grown so close that their identities seem to blur together. They leave Wisconsin for Los Angeles, carrying their small-town roots with them into a huge, crowded city. The speaker describes their days with a quiet, observant tenderness. He fixes cars, and the oil and metal leave marks on him, even making him bleed. She waits tables, and her looks and manner stay plain, pure, and kind.
The real heart of the poem is the night. After work, they lie on the beach, taste lemon and tobacco on each other's lips, and listen to small waves pushing the sand into ripples. The speaker doesn't seem to judge them or comment much; he simply lets us watch. The mood is calm and warm, with a hint of weariness from hard labor. By the end, they rest in the sun, holding fingers, certain of what they know and want. The poem suggests that their closeness is the thing the city can't wear down.