The morning fog obscures the corporate towers,
shrouds the shorn palms, slips through the glaucous boughs
of eucalyptus, dampening the hours
when call girls sleep and dealers start to rouse.
Pacific in its provenance, it covers
unsheltered youths, cops on their crooked beat,
the cardboard beds of uncommitted lovers
too crazed and poor for anyone to treat.
When will the sun burn through this fog, expose
syringes floating on advancing seas,
the strung-out billboard starlets in repose,
the citrus flames of oil refineries?
When will we view the wide Cahuenga Pass,
its freeway shoulders glittering with glass?
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
The Genesis of Economics
We live, writes Italian economist Luigino Bruni in his The Economy of Salvation, in an exhausted age…
The Church of Ratzinger (ft. Sam Zeno Conedera)
In this episode, Sam Zeno Conedera joins R. R. Reno on The Editor’s Desk to talk about…
Pelvic Theology, Pelvic Justice
In a recent New York Times guest essay, Catholic writer David Gibson praised Pope Leo for moving…
