This city has long since stolen the souls
Of well-dressed, heartless inhabitants.
My car inches past jammed pavement placed
Corrodors cornered by Flynn Publications
And Ferarri dealerships.
Lunch tables spaced in singles, each tie and tight-skirt
Dabbing faces with white napkins, or refolding
The business pages.
When I sit in the courtyard with the limosines and
Watch my fellow lunch-breaking employees they look
Into the distance, or a book, or the white stone patio
-- No eyes to match my curious gaze or serious smile.
Pale, chain-smoking islands abound.
Now that I've worn a suit I find nothing impressive.
These corps of faceless attorneys do nothing but
Waste hours, waste paper, waste space
in this towering Beverly Hills building,
(with no public restrooms)
And waste lives on frivolous articles of
Incorporation, billion-dollar buyouts, bad coffee, and
Seventeen bucks an hour to a Law School Temp to
Type in a Rolodex.
6/98
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