Walking Away from Diane Arbus
Walking backwards
Through La Brea and its sculptures
Of men with copper bows,
Their faces straight and narrow.
Houses stacked on hillsides,
Like Dominoes or Jenga.
Some boy walks past them on the street,
Face hooded by rising clouds of smoke.
He flicks the ash into the grainy river.
On the way to Pasadena
There are no boys with dark, weary faces,
Just tunnels and traffic signs,
Car horns and kids hanging out windows,
Hitchhikers waiting by the roadside,
Escaping just to be free.
There are some palm trees in the afternoon.
They drift and sway in the sun.
Alcoholic