Keats In L. A.

What would John Keats think of
bikini-clad girls

in between coughing fits
the smell of coppery rain

a prayer dropped on stone
bouncing to the next

think of Fanny as a door
into tomorrow

I tell him pack your suitcase John
head to California

crack that Grecian urn
against Byron’s head

he who’s already looked into the future
bereft of layer upon layer of female clothing.