I saw her in an arts district tavern -
a simple pub of lesser classes;
not her people, yet there she was -
absently finger fucking her Iphone
with a sea breeze before her.
Her overwhelmingly basic presence
soured my bourbon with unpleasant
notes of disdain, but this city is free,
I suppose, and this beverly-belle
is free to foul whatever air she pleases;
just as I am to limit my tolerance
to those of my own station.
So, paying my tab, and boarding
the Metro, I retreated to my skid row hovel
where I continued to drink until
shadows blurred with tilting earth,
and my body sunk into carpet stained
Not the place I dreamed of, but
at least I know where my place is.