Safely behind eight cylinders
you drive through the boulevard,
through that neighborhood.
You stop, lock, and walk
on this city street
moving as if your pants were paper,
your long term annuities tremble
against this urban pedestrian dare.
you swing your office pummeled head
atop a focaccia filled belly,
angle it as if you might
be the predator instead,
wine and olive oil glisten on your lips.
You make a cursory deal with fate,
struck and internalized
because you think in your well read
specialness, the world needs you.
Believing this, protects, it tailors
your now oiled boulevard stride,
you clutch your keys though
without a valet on this side.
through this cement corridor,
it might yield but a simple tally
garnishing familiar looking cracks,
but it could perhaps foment
a short changed drama
that rattles all the
social petri dishes
swabbed with liberal turns
and incubated with shallow remedy.