Goose bumps. Forgotten jacket. It’s fall.
Side streets are wet off Sunset.
Petrichor adorns as bold steps sound
of puddles found. Throbbing city screams
along. Alone, I’m lost in thought
again, swallowed up by Los Angeles.
Godforsaken sidewalks. Goddamned crosswalks! Los Angeles
wayfarers calm traffic. Until green falls
on idling minds, then progressive thought
drives forward once again. Hidden sunset,
headlights on. On the gas! Screams
at fellow motorists, only human sound.
My musing is interrupt—edifying sound
of a street poet: “Los Angeles
left on the rack…Freed, she screams
True. Prayers on deaf ears fall.
While days march—sunrise to sunset.
Bystanders here, dismiss without second thought.”
His spoken word dies, but thought
is born where ennui lies. Sound
retreats, walking backwards like a sunset,
into a sluice of silence. Los Angeles
anticipates twilight. I watch it fall
like a murder without the screams.