La La Land

In the bustling heart of La La Land – a slick, neon‑bleached dream –
the lights flicker in rhythm, as if to each other’s beat they lean.
The jazz clubs spin amber riffs, and the street‑lamps hum a low refrain;
every shadow sways to the music, every cloud hangs a May‑pale.

I stroll past the downtown arcade, where art‑strung tiles remind
of old London terraces, their cracked ports that hum with mind.
A cyclist on the pavement, his helmet shining like a coin,
passes the strip‑mall of the night, where lovers share a join.

A blue‑jam scene unfurls in cafés; the menus all mention “theatre”;
the waitress reads a script of a romantic drama, forever.
The city’s rhythm mirrors the tempo—clap, fanfares, traffic, maze;
laundry line of sunrise, scrambles the mood, the pipes of day.

(Bear in mind that this is a “La La” dreamlike place, a fancied fizz;
a fleeting, fleeting story of passion set in a laugh‑tide fizz.)

And erasing all the sudden pressure— like a martini in a Sloe
the city stays its soul, it keeps the wonder, in nocturne’s flow.
What’s the secret of La La Land? Sounds like something soft, a sigh,
says “Hold on for a leap, 5‑pence, love smiles onward, never die.”