Poem: Los Angeles

Some of our streets

look like blasted heaths

with King Lears and Fools

wandering around, heads uncovered

 

wailing in the tempest.

Meanwhile in the walled estates

Goneril and Regan plan

to raise armies and sweep

 

all before them. It is as it always

has been. It is a story as old

as mankind, and as unkind,

mired in strength and vigor.

 

May Lear find his Cordelia,

and live in her bosom,

not torn from her,

another trophy above the hearth.

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