Those opening credits
superimposed over
Santa Monica Boulevard
mean it's a period piece—
Raymond Chandler's L.A.
And even in black & white
the sky is Bunsen blue.
All of the automobiles,
like my old '49 Chevy,
sport white sidewalls.
In those days
a careless barber
might etch sidewalls
above your ears;
perforce, your fedora
would be your noggin's
fender skirts.
And A-line skirts
adorn the actresses
as they sashay
across the set—
same as my first love,
a prick teaser, with
her teased-up hair,
her cultured pearls,
and her pointy bra.
First cars, first loves:
were they guideposts
destined to be cherished,
or were they landmine
markers on the topography
of an idle retrospection?
