I cut across Fabulous Avenue
going home from the Russian produce-mart.
In each new mansion a vacancy
is vaulted up to the highest floor,
to the highest bidder as prices fall.
The townhouse residents were ticked
when a fabulous rooftop blocked their sun
and solar-paneled it all to itself.
They cursed the alderman’s kick-back butt
and littered the esplanade with junk.
Blame it on Botticino marble tiles
gleaming in their barefoot cool
though no one’s walked there without hard shoes.
The third floor jacuzzi hasn’t yet
spritzed anyone with its fabulous jets
or massaged the small of a well-toned back.
My shopping bag keeps chafing my arm,
ripe tomatoes—cheap and sweet.
I rest in the shade of a portico
grand and stately as Monticello.
Tonight I’m making dinner for friends.
We’ll bitch and joke and make new plans
for the future of our fabulous land.
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