L.A. Holds Us: A Poem

Volume 19: Issue 1

My L.A. is too quiet, too clean.

A place where the rich flock, hiding 

There are too many people with too much money.

their beers in their Yeti tumblers.

My L.A. is fences tagged with graffiti,

Some third-rate Italian place and cracked pavement.

A major toxic industrial site to my left 

And a smaller one to my right.

My L.A. is not a place that allows space 

For cultivating and nurturing success.

It’s a trap I seek to escape,

A place to get lost in the masses, 

To truly be anonymous.

For the most part,

My L.A. can hold me 

While I scream and cry.

My L.A. is like a movie on repeat:

The same people

At the same place

At the same time.

L.A. is a beautiful place with beautiful people.

The people make this city move

Around potholes and corner stores,

Street vendors and blasting music.

The neighborhood is my playground

even long after sundown.

I tug on the invisible string of my L.A.

I see vibrancy, community, and liberty.

A beautiful, fast-paced place 

A community filled with pride.

Our L.A. can hold us 

while we scream and cry.

Our L.A. is home

and that will never change.