I am so sick of this smog, (And the plane has only just landed). Gray and gold, it smothers the city; I already miss cotton-ball clouds In a sky that is blue, just blue, Floating.across flat green fields filled With yellow-topped corn and spindly windmills. The flatness is immense here, But clotted with a wreck of suburbia, Boxy ranches and sudden apartment buildings. Instead of a harvest, the backyards are filled With cement and fetal-curved swimming pools. Every bit of it looks about to crack Under all this weight.
The palm trees that used to look exotic And spark my mind with other peopleβs sold memories Of India, Siam, and Hollywood, Are now tacky, too tall, Hovering over the highway wall. They look like a locust infestation. Even the white windmills Seemed more benign, their blades Whipping around and around As if they were ready for a fight.
Ten months is too long for LA, But it would probably be too long for heaven, as well. So when I settle for good, It will be in a house With a winter view of the river, A highway drive from the city. This valley, though sometimes empty, is filled With both silence and cement, Sunshine and snow and thunderstorms, And the only house that matters, With a winter view of the river.