A city by the sea,

Shone in dazzling virgin light,

A city by the sea with the name of a saint,

still suffers many a complaint,

about its fortune and fame,

For it is cloaked in tripe,

From the talking heads,

Who claim each and every inch,

Makes the Nobel a cinch,

They talk of green,

but the kind that they mean,

doesn’t grow on the trees they will cut,

For the pundits they feed,

to put up more walls,

And promise, with greed in their voice,

That we still have a choice,

and that they will eagerly hear

what we have to say, now near done,

They go on their way, proud of the streets

they have crammed with more cars than ever before,

They call it traffic calming, but it’s more like embalming,

packed like sardines there’s scarce space for bike.

They call it pedestrian friendly, they call it the way,

but it scares me everyday, a man in a Porsche in the midst of divorce, his wrought face buried deep in his phone, leaves no hope that the child innocently crossing, will e’re make it home,

The news will say that the driver just couldn’t see, and with the way things are going I wonder can we?


Steve Keats

Santa Monica

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