L.A.

From here, the fog looks like a rumpled bed,
as grey as unwashed sheets. This building looms

its dank, dark way up to the sun, a stem
of some old weed. My office doesn’t boast

a window, just a loud computer whirr,
a sometimes ringing phone, a carpet worn

already, threadbare. This is our fluorescent
reality, our home away. Our home.