SOMEWHERE IN LOS ANGELES

At eighty-two, you still spend your evenings
blackening the pages
while the guitar and synthesizer
gather dust in the corner of the room.
The desk where you write is covered
in the best and worst of your new work.
I imagine Lorca, your daughter
who lives downstairs, straining an ear,
just waiting for the next "Hallejuiah."
Do you still write about Montreal, the city
where the cold nights drove you into the streets
for your solitary walks,
where you were a bemused companion
of the courtyard cobblestones?
Does the Parc de Portugal still find its
way into your verses and songs?
Will there be a line about the pure snow
falling on the slopes of Mt. Baldy?
Let me ask you this, sir: What is it about age
that makes us irritable and slow,
that finds us snapping off the heads
of our guests as we chat? It's not like you
still have to choose between the monastery
and a tour. Your time is your own now.
You may write as slowly as you wish.
It's sad to me, I'm just now realizing,
that you will most likely die in Los Angeles.
I've been there before, my friend, and
I would have wished for you a less
plastic end to your story.