Los Angeles

She lives by the sea, in the south, in the west,
climbing up from the ocean,
and into the desert,
over miles and miles of space,
she melts into her neighbors.

Her skin is a rough patchwork of cement and asphalt,
stretched taught in the center and sprawled loosely around the sides,
swimming pools of blue eyes,
freckles of blacktop,
an unhealthy pallor of black and grey.

Her hair is a tangled mass of freeways and interchanges,
swerving and curling and interlacing,
connecting cities to cities,
people to people,
cars to more freeways.

She speaks many tongues, hears many voices,
rolling her Rs, lilting her voice,
hissssing and roarrrring,
asking and calling,
a sing-song of sounds.

And who are her lovers? Her faithful beaus?
They are brown, and white, and yellow, and black,
they are all colors of the earth,
they reach up to her shoulders and crawl down to her feet,
they worship her on movie screens and magazines.

She is the city of angels,
born of a small pueblo,
raised by the sun,
fed by eager immigrants,
Lalaland, el norte,
creator of dreams.