Exodus Rex
Maybe you’re tired of LA. Or maybe you’re just getting old.
Fed up with graffiti. Had it with litter. Your eyes all the time irritated.
Maybe you’re so totally over the concrete, the gridlock, the no parking/ever; the scofflaw Lycra cyclists three abreast blocking your lane.
Maybe you’re pissed dodging dog poop, hopscotching your footpath to paradise. Pit bulls off leash at your favorite park; the nerve of coyotes staring you down like you were some bunny
ascared of the dark.
Maybe you no longer marvel at forms once fantastic. The Hollywood Bowl is just such a hassle.
The curve of the ramp from the 105E to the 110N panics you. The sleeveless starlets
who lunch at The Ivy: not even so much as a side-eyed glance.
Maybe you ought to move along.
Yeah, that was only an aftershock: The Big One’s still coming.
Get ready for a week of record high temps. The sidewalk and beaches belong to The Homeless, not you.
Your friends all moved away. Not you.
Great cities take payment in grit and forgiving. Maybe you’re tired of LA. Or maybe you’re tired of living.
It’ll cost you bank to stay in The Show. Pay up.
Have mercy. Don’t go.
No comments:
Post a Comment