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.”