She went to Los Angeles and got lost

Among the angels; along the way, tossed,

And, in the end, well, she recouped the cost.

She wore the sin cope like she were a priest,

Devouring in halves a moveable feast

Transported like a relic from Back East.

She wrote me once, near the end, on finding

A little limelight which was not blinding;

A part which was starring, but, not binding.

She was contented to play it for Now;

To move only in the moment, not plow

To the credits and prematurely bow.