In the evening time
On the quiet, tree-lined, private streets of serene suburbia-
Not the claustrophobic labyrinths and alleyways,
Of the dense and terror-filled ghetto;
The different ones trek, not drive,
They ride their unfashionable bicycles,
Not thoroughbred horses or dear motorcycles;-
They run in the rain, in their broken suits,
To their abysmal shacks and crowded tenements,
With measly monies as Monday’s earnings-
In their pockets full of holes
Gratitude; from their cheapskate and snooty overlords
Who drive, never trek, just walk their poodles
Or jog in the sunshine in their designer tracksuits
Or ride their thoroughbreds and fancy Harley Davidsons
To their pompous and cozy addresses;-
Wads of crisp notes sticking out of their burgeoning wallets,
Pocket change for tips and the poodles’ pampering

© kevin orato