He was incredibly handsome, rich and smart
when I first met him fresh from the university,
an esthete of the first order, writer, artist,
bon vivant and a great lover of women,
lucky Lucas. His father, a philosopher
and art historian, got out of Germany
just in time with a cache of masterpieces
by his friend Max Beckmann. In Santa Barbara
Lucas lived a sybaritic life, and when
his parents died he bought a house on Mountain
Drive with a view all the way past the oil rigs
in the channel. He collected countless treasures—
and lost everything in a drought-fueled firestorm.
Lucas, if you are reading this, please call.