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(Re tiny box-like homes lining the west side of
South Bundy Drive, north of Nebraska Street, in West LA)

The soiled feeling comes not
From the indignant paradise
Scurrying past their frontal lobes 
It arrived in silence
Borne of being first to the party
And the ensuing, deafening wars
With the partycrashers
With their cranes
Their progress
Their eclectic sense of
Civilized degradation
Squeezing the life from
The Boxes Before Nebraska
That modest set of
Stoic pre-war cookie-cutter domiciles 
Perfectly groomed
Impeccably aligned 
For Ozzie and Harriet, and
Their silent parade of nasty
The Boxes, they struggle
To remain relevant in the haze of
Modernity's hammer and
Banality's autoimmune disease
To avoid temptation as
The developer's succulent lips and larceny
Get wider and wetter
To simply let be amidst the swollen busy 
Not to mention a new cast of characters to contend with:
     - The brackish bendejo careening in stride, unaffected by the Boxes' sidewalk's ill-timed permanence and oblique conundrums, left from quakes and lashings of yore
     - The livid madman embracing his next lethal dose of humanity as he marches, barks and feuds with phantom nemeses camped out at the Boxes' doorstep
     - The ragged cougar across the street, squeamish exterior gone bad, pounded into Angelino submission by the tricks and spells she conjures and endures
     -  The dual threat of LA Fitness night trolls, basking in cardio vampire glow, while the next morning's brew of rainbow children percolates into G-d's bitter latte, sipped cupless on fresh asphalt.
And yet...they stand
Together as one
By accident
By stupor of justice
By de jure
By no better place to go
Testament to legacies
Begging to remain
Living proof that
Bounty, modesty and sanctity
Can be achieved
When you stop thinking outside of the box.

(4/11/15)
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