Nowhere, Los Angeles

I count six bodies before coffee,
curled like question marks
beneath awnings engineered
for shade but not shelter.

The Erewhon glows like a shrine
to wellness. $18 algae oil
reflects the early sun
in a way that feels… strategic.

I pass a man swaddled in a trash bag
like it’s armor or grief or both.
He is dreaming, I imagine,
of a door that opens.

Inside the cafe, someone orders
a bone broth tonic. She says
“I’m trying to heal my gut”
as if healing were a subscription.

A pigeon pecks near the man’s foot
like a metaphor I refuse to complete.

I feel enormous
and small. Guilty
in a thrifted hoodie.
I imagine I’m better than this.

The city is a novel
about a city. The plot
is gentrification with footnotes.
The main character is shame.

I want to give him money.
I want to abolish money.
I want to go back to bed
and not dream.

Some days the weather
feels like a system
designed to punish the poor.
Other days it just feels
like LA.