Amy Moves To Los Angeles
It's a warm day
like so many warm days.
Twelve months of them and counting.
She says she loves the guy.
But would love him all the more
if they could move.But no.
Winter jackets hide away in closets.
Heat undoes cold.
Holidays feel like someone
lost in the wrong story.In her day's quasi-desert,
she has become a calendar junkie,
imagining what it would be like
if the names of the months
actually matched the correct temperature.Eucalyptus-ubiquitous
is the Latin name what grows
just about everywhere,
mostly outside her window
where one leaf shifts color slowly
and she waits for a flake of snow
that never arrives.She's declared war on the California year.
It's just not the old New England clockwork.
Her dresses are a prime example
of what's wrong with the place.
They refuse to divide by four.Amy writes: What a place.
There's no history in its history.
And the sky insists on being blue.
The weather's like this guy
she once knew in Boston.
It just won't take the hint.
