Waiting For A Taxi

It had just stopped raining
when she came to LA,
and the sky ---king of a jazz band
flashing his last thrill
of lightning before dusk.

Her hair was loose, rippling
at a cool pace that mirrored
the storm's platinum tones
of California swing.

She stood on the corner
of Western and Santa Monica
slipping into the mist
like Lana Turner
into gray cashmere.

Daughter of a poet
whose eyes were tinged
red as the dyed shells
of pistachio when he drank,
this girl knew addiction,

was hooked on the evolution
of ideas. She thought herself
a free spirit, said she was here
to inherit the wind.

A light breeze and some pigeons
kept her company. They waddled around
like dull laundry women
who gossiped at the river bank. It was hard
to believe such birds were served
as entrees in fine restaurants.

She preferred fillet of sole
guarded by a glass of white wine
while the moon courted her
oceanside with a floating lute
and waves softly mentioning Lorca.

Sometimes a meal for one
or arrival in a strange city
can bring the spirit in tune
with the muses -- you know

The Cloud Nine Literati
who laugh, lean over the world
and haughtily chose their next artist.

Perhaps, they saw her there
waiting to be discovered
and then driven away
by a yellow hearse;

her talent laid-out
in timeless fame, her words left
as candle song -- burning
inside a shot glass
custom made for regret.