Los Angeles (a poem)

Los Angeles
by Tabitha Grace Smith

She stretches out in the darkness,
Emblazoned with lights.
From far off I can see her.
She wraps around the ocean, the mountains and the valleys
As if space itself were her only barrier.

From high above in a plane I watch,
The desolate blackness that hides all else,
But not her,
Not my city,
She envelops all around her in light.

There you can see her veins of glowing red, pulsing hot blood.
They wind and twist through every spot.
Named with binary numbers 101, 10, 1
They carry her citizens on so many journeys.

She pauses when she meets the Pacific,
It’s mere size the only thing to stop her.
Yet, she encourages it’s waves.
She makes the moon dance for her.

Mercy and terror haunt her streets,
Dreams live and die at her doors.
She’s not like her sisters: Chicago and New York,
Her lack of age defines her.

For years she was part red, white and green,
The colors have never left her.
Swathed now in blue, she raises her eyes,
Defying anyone who cannot see her worth.

She makes plans with Santa Anna,
And sings sweetly to San Diego.
She steps out into Hollywood,
And relaxes in Malibu.

She knows the whispers about her,
The concerns, the jeers,
She shakes her shoulders, turns her hips,
And settles down again and outshines the stars.


Photograph by Tom Anderson on Google+

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