Thursday, February 16, 2006


Erect in ushered silence
they stand with military precision.
A menial battalion of the nine to five.
Sun sparks glinting starched halos,
brittle cotton rims swimming,
beneath navy-stern waste coats.

One ticket. One ride.
Essaying into leather dreams
and chrome luxury desires,
the silent patrons pass,
overlooking their corps de valet.
A flurry of quick, clean steps
amidst the milieu of polished men.
A few dollars tossed without respect
for that patient row, the thinned out line.

They drive the moneyed cavalcade,
sweeping lazily ‘round the circular drive
and pull into service before exiting
A poor substitute, not even daring
to remove one white glove and touch
the blackened wheel of pampered existence.


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