Sketch #313

by Lucia Starkey

"An Ode to Los Angeles"

For my first lover, I took a whore,
And reveled in joining tradition's rank.
I remember the legs,
Identical in filth and flaws,
Between which my days were made.
Her heavy, flowered scent,
Which no breeze dispelled;
Her flowers in tawdry display,
Bright blooms, over-bursting,
Old, even in bud.
Ignoring the faces that passed us by,
I might have been redeemed;
But every morning she was mine alone,
Loving thousands, destroying more.
My first lover,
My second love;
That lying harlot.
Praising beauty above wealth,
Praising wealth above wisdom,
Selling eternal youth, and dining on conceit.
My angel in the rough,
A memory, a dream, a mirage of flesh,
Teasing skeletons to fill her with their bones,
Sending a voice, silver, across their minds.
Even I, having shunned her promises, shiver at those words,
Caught by longing,
Dreaming of her darkest parts, and softest sighs.