Los Angeles

The first time I saw her,
she looked tired and dirty,
like the bag ladies she is famous for --
rush hour traffic clogging her freeways,
     varicose veins so ugly
I had to look away to the smaller
more pleasant, less interesting towns
that surround her like curious children
     around an old woman.
She filled me with fear and disgust,
and for a long time I avoided her.
Then, driving past her one night
     I caught a glimpse
of black velvet and diamonds.
I looked again and saw an elegant lady
wearing a tiara of stars, winking at me --
     It was her.
Intrigued, I went back the next day
     and the next.
She invited me to the theater,
     introduced me to art,
          sang the blues to me --
and I came to know her,
not as the bag lady I thoought she was,
but as the aging, eccentric duchess
     she really is.
Although we have become friends,
I am wary of her moods --
     moonwatcher, dream wrecker,
sometimes loving, sometimes violent.
Well-known and respected, she is
     the gateway
to any world I want to enter --
I have but to choose, and it is mine.
Choose wisely, she says,
     as you know,
things are not always as they seem.