Roxanne on Seventh Street
you don't have to turn on the red light – The Police
How long ago did you stop caring? The search for Prince Charming in the red-tinged parade of faces that hover over yours, night after night, has gone beyond a raison d'etre, beyond the need to believe in fairy tales. The spike of your heels slowly sink into the concrete. The edges of your skirt fray along skinny steel thighs as you scan the streets for signs of expensive tastes; the quicksilver jaguar, a flash of gold around the wrist, the gleam of bonded teeth. Those trappings can sometimes guarantee a better class of client, though, not one who will caress ivory limbs gone marble cold, slowly build up the fire within, or, who will brush away, with soft kisses, the patina of sadness over your smile. As the sky darkens from purple to indigo, you spot a sports car as it snakes down the boulevard. You assume your best siren stance, turn on your crimson aura, and wait for him to find you.
Peacefire
There’s a class war
on my street
renters vs homeowners
but no HOA - yet
you can tell who’s who
by their Ring doorbell signs
and eight-foot wooden fences
that surround their homes
have the LAPD
non-emergency line
on speed dial
and host backyard parties
until the small hours
with a Panamanian DJ
who spins Brazilian techno
use the article “the”
before the descriptives
“homeless” and “working class”
to make their point of caste
walk their dogs
without a leash
while the renters’ cats
soak up sunlight
from apartment windows
I’m one of the latter
and i’m okay with that
I love my neighborhood
and wave at my neighbors
who pay 8.5% interest
on their 30-year mortgage
when I finally leave
either by choice
or in a body bag
my neighbors will toast
a sarcastic farewell
over tapas and craft beer
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