Walking home from my low-paying job, in the heart of Los Angeles,
in my version of business wear: Target-brand shirt, pants, and tie.
A businessman surveys potential profit,
in a lot designed for housing.
The rain-soaked sidewalk and the viewing company,
block my path.
They notice me and judge my wear,
I keep my head down and attempt to pass them
(people with riches meander, while those with less scurry).
They continue on,
locking me paces behind the realtor’s sales pitch.
Suddenly, the realtor shouts,
I look up and see a Washington,
face down, ass up, ready for the taking.
The realtor doesn’t care, he’s about to make a sweet commission.
No, the rich man swoops down like a hawk,
and snatches the denomination like a field mouse.
I continue past them as they veer off in success,
imagining what he’ll do with it.
I see him throwing it, crumbled, onto his large dresser,
or in a jar of “loose change;”
or even into a vast vault akin to Scrooge McDuck.
As I open the broken gate to my temporary apartment,
with a head full of dread,
I say to myself:
“If only they’d let me pass.
I could’ve used that dollar.”