wiltshire blvd

where golden images still exist
of a sunny, sandy, seaside precipice
as some things do not fade
like the Macy’s parade or the JFK cavalcade

some new arrivals are attracted by glitter
some seek redress from birth in the wrong litter
the tide of invention is a test for newcomers
intolerant of a new life with unfamiliar drummers

from the south, an exodus from despair
seeking a place at the table, in a generation or two
from the east, bored Americans everywhere
hoping to become someone new

illegals, aliens and wetbacks
man woman and child
it is impossible to follow all their tracks
or see the future until votes are compiled

here everyone marks their border
quickly learning the foresight of a hoarder
thankful for every day that they are closer
to a dream career or food from a grocer

when night falls or power fails
the haves of Beverly hills stop to alleviate themselves
their reality held firmly as the day’s sales
like santa with a factory of elves
except the toys here are destined for shelves

at the shore, the road greets the pacific
a beach graveyard with 2,455 crosses mark this day
while family fun belies any wiff of horrific
their duty unclear while being treated like a stray

the road ends where it begins
at the intersection of awe and suspicion
no weight given to media spins or cheshire grins
or a legacy which demands too much transition


each day measured by what is, no more or less
not by what once was or even what could be
finding strength in spiritual success
and redemption in a big fee or the marquee

yet each visitor seeks directions from the other
remaining separate, except to embrace
each son or daughter, mother or brother
and the trampled seeds of a new human race