The table was set for carnivores,
plush reds, and cynical, published bores—
darling, my subtle, every barb and bent
look was over what someone wrote or spent,
and I realized the city of my birth
was gone, remodeled, the old maps
scurrilous and crooked, their worth
reduced to decorative traps
baited with small-batch honey—
an American city in 2019,
nothing but someone else’s money,
no good place to loaf or lean
and watch, the rich having given us gifts
like airports, low taxes, VISA, and Lyfts.
