Inferno

Dante’s circling into hell along the rim of existence
cannot eclipse the furious twisting descent
from the Grapevine through sulfurous smog
into the belly of Los Angeles, City of Angels,
everyone pushing for a step up,
elbows out to strike ahead of another.

Even the priest asks for donations
before he learns my name.
Without angels, who may sleep?
I sweat the night, pivot one hip
then another, rise to a Latin landscaper
hooking the hose, snipping the hawthorn.
I share my coffee, he his love for rich dirt.
He sprinkles fertilizer with both arms
stretched out as if he were winged.
In a city that rises late, who sees invisible help,
who sees the angels when they work?