where the writers are
Homesick in Hollywood

Conversation around me

clinks like shells rolling in surf,

crescendos, crests, hisses

arrives at my table.

“I love Jimmy. I love him”,

a chic girl coos, breathless

over sea-weed littered

 with the bodies of shrimp.

 

I bribe pigeons with bread.

They burble and posture, fluff and preen,

nibble crackers and French baguette

like the starlings and shrikes

shredding the flesh of careers

plumes fanned

in perpetual public rut.

 

Single crow, high over all,

black silhouette taped to a window

One primary feather

gone – gap-toothed grin

of wing - wheels North, away

from this smutty sky.