An English Man In Hermosa

When I leave North London
and move to the West Coast of California,
I'll choose to move here. To Hermosa Beach 90254.
I'll sit upon the hot golden sand
and watch the bikini-clad girls
at the world-famous beach volleyball nets.
I'll sit upon the hot golden sand
and watch the rollerbladers along The Strand,
competing for space with the bicycle crusiers
and the joggers and the baby-strollers.
I'll sit upon the hot golden sand
and watch the boogieboarders shake-a-shaka
on that sweet South Bay surf.
The morning haze slowly burning off to reveal
Santa Catalina Island floating like a faerie castle on the horizon.
The gentle sea breeze will play havok with my hair,
but if worst comes to worst
I'll just buy me a hat to wear.
On the way back to the apartment,
I'll swing by the corner store and collect
some groceries in a brown paper bag.
Maybe stop for a weiner at Skooby's Hot Dog Shack.
I'll boil some water on the stove so
that I can sit in the yard and watch the sunset
with a mug of imported Russian Caravan tea.
You’re right, it's not Venice 90291 or Santa Monica 90401
but I think that's why I like it so.
It reminds me of Finchley in a strange way.
Hermosa isn't really Los Angeles.
Just like Finchley isn't really London.
I’ve always found the outskirts to be more interesting.
I prefer life on the margins. I prefer life on the fringes.
I prefer life in the sticks. In the Burbs. In the Boondocks.