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.