Where Chevies graze on tar. Attendants yawn
And off-key hum in booths, their jackpots healed
Forgotten else, by crackling pure-gold songs.
The city planners planted also willows,
Drooping, awkward, in rows behind the benches,
And locusts small. But Pamela can't borrow
(Can't buy) some shade or any tune that drenches
Craziness. And I'm broke. We stroll tonight
And lie how gardens sprout on balconies,
And fortune damn that we can't buy on credit,
Unknown as we are (noble, though). So please
The cops, the moon, or men who hum in light
Someone for unnamed madness could sell identities.
Where palms (or cypress), plastic, lean in pots,
Of course undying... easy place to get lost.
Moreover, dear, there's never an antidote,
Such as a map. But on the wall are pictures,
Legends, they say, in color, breathing. Laugh
You don't, though rude men fixed on loco desire
Buzz their songs. I don't know what to ask.
Contrite or charged, such odd and flickering shows
To watch with you, like kaleidoscope books of romance
(For instance, the voyeur hunter his dogs dispose
Of teachingly) make it hard for me to convince
You, Pamela (supposed) or else Jane Doe,
That I'm no counterfeit boy, that I'm your negotiable prince.
Who can tell? Or if the cedars are worried,
Or laurels eavesdrop? Mainly, they stand for cover,
So that, along their lanes can walk with pride
The lovely. Or the strange, who aren't exactly,
In this forest, quaint or marvellous.
And though, Beloved, we know the names of trees,
We'll safer walk disguised, anonymous.
Because (whichever) Pamela or my dear,
While boughs enclose our heads like paper bags,
The crescent moon, lecher or psycho, leers.
From his grin hidden, you start your crying jag--
But trees and Arcadians maintain their costumed careers:
Along the boulevard, other princes dress in drag.