30:30 2014, Day 17

The List

Snow arrives on the North Shore,

another commuter, and lingers

to numb the ground against

a pain in the hot days that may

never come. Los Angeles

has been kicked out

of the four seasons. The Santa Anas

parch young skin, fill lungs

with smoke. Everyone there drives

in seach of local anesthesia.

Lindsay, I believe you

if you say you were having

a laugh scratching out a list

of good and great men

who failed to answer

your riddle. I see you in Us,

heartbroke Helen who couldn't ruin

a single suitor, who swallowed

the war and moved to Reno.

I can't buy the gossip

that you took up the myth you made

as a girl, that on some strange day

two people can touch and trade

souls until they learn some expected

nonsense about being nice.

The apple doesn't say For The

Nicest. If you can find blonde

in a bottle you can find anything there.