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?
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