The Rich and the Dead

It’s Monday morning. I drive across the
Newport Bridge, past the billowing smoke of
the Reuben E. Lee,
the vacation flags at the Dunes and
towards Fashion Island to park cars for the
Hoytie Toyties.
the windshield of my beige Volks is cracked
and the sun shoots through its broken web
and lands on my
still-drunk-from-the-night-before-face: 
beads of toxic sweat slither
down my cheeks,
a cigarette dangles from the crust
of my laughing lips,
and the sun continues to slap me in the face
and I can smell the aftermath of the beer,
taste dozens of
stale cigarettes, and the venom from her snake
bitten
lips.
I pull into the hotel;
the security waves me through;
I park
a couple of Rolls Royces
a Bentley
a dozen or more Benz’s and BMW’s.

All day long I run and park and fetch their
goddamn hoytie mobiles, and all for a few
lousy bucks, and another year without any rain.

 

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