Poetry
Los Angeles
Smoking in high-tower plaza
I watch her draped over a piano bench, fake smoking slims, billowy dress hanging
lank in the dead air of a JG Ballard high-rise condominium near
the intersection of LA and pretty privilege, Sephora eye-shadow covering
bruises of face and ego, cigarette smoke tear-trailing smog riddled skies, women work
maypole legs down city streets, looking for work, making work, working work, while
police cruisers swallow drunks and deliver runny mascara to precinct waiting rooms, the city eats
desire, innocence, and identity, the city devours dignity in exchange for ambition, I pluck
the napkin from my pocket and wipe my face, red with the garnish of her kiss while her
horseradish tongue licks the gutter of her gums, four-corner body laid
in hometown white, I take a sip, keep level eyes and wait for her to take a drag.
Hey, I’m Roman. I’m working on my debut novel, 20xx, a work in magical realism. I write on Substack.
