Rich, bored, and the afternoon is wet.
Turning the pages of Vogue, sipping anisette
In the big window of the coffee house,
Staring at him from shiny pages is a black girl in a white blouse.
Without, on bumpy pavements tripped upon by swanky heels
No rainbow settles with the rain splashed by Mercedes wheels
And mediocre men and women scour shop-fronts in their quest
To find something or, perhaps, someone who’ll pass their personal test.
This street is where the rich pass time,
Where recession does not stroll
And at the sidewalk’s end there is no crime,
No quiet desperation, raucous sounds, no soul.
A woman ambulates into the view of
The rich, youngish bore in the coffee shop,
His eyes swivel in their late-night sockets.
She, meanwhile, won’t glance, or stop
Drift on, elegant as the moving finger.
He deigns not to give pursuit,
No need to crease the leisure suit,
She belongs to these pristine streets,
Available like the city’s other treats.