I have flown, London
to Los Angeles, and it
is good to feel my own
feet against the warm

tarmac ground. No
keys, no car, just my legs
to stretch and the rays to
catch. So I choose
to walk.

In LA? Nobody
walks in LA. Not
another soul, just the pat
of my shoes on the
pavement (sidewalk,

whatever), the burn
and buzz of cars,
incredulous passengers
peering out at me,
sizing me up as they

pass, singing perhaps.
A foreign oddity in
the empty sunny space,
chasing a bigger eye.

I do not miss the road, under
the bridge, under me. And
I am not a stray. Nobody
walks in LA. But I am not
a nobody.

I am cinematic.