Scene Two

The other day,

I was having a cigar

outside of a girlfriend’s house.

She lives in a demilitarized zone

where violent crime is day by day.

And out of nowhere this beautiful cream-colored

Porsche pulls up with the Jimmy John’s display sign

sitting atop of the car.

The guy behind the wheel looked like a former

company head: white, mid-fifties, lost and confused,

slightly suicidal, but not quite ready to throw in the towel.

And having survived the eight year political carnage

of neighborhood foreclosures, bankruptcies, and job losses,

she said, “now that’s one poor motherfucker.”