I stare down the barrel
Of my fork into glassy eyes
Of a cape buffalo on the stucco wall
Gathering dust motes beside a grizzly.
The eatery is packed with chichi
Chix, perfumed with new money,
The sort of eat-out-Friday-night crowd
Borned bulletproof and made pale blond
By genetics and or competition.
Mole poblano and silken black bean soup,
Warmed green and red sauces for corn chips
We are in a hood where cops
Follow blackmen to run plates,
Axe, “Can we hep yew? On the stop.
Our cigar bar has a separate
Entrance with no welcome signs
For Billy Clinton; wiggly, tight-butt
Women giggle their way through smoke haze
Like it’s a great adventure, holding
Their sparkle arkles aloft to emit
Ambient light bounce, like marker beacons
Or sirens hard by boat-eating rocks.