I walked down the avenue of obscenity,
of unspeakable wealth,
store window displays glazed
with million-dollar baubles
for women waltzing by
in shoes of gold,
bandaged faces newly
contoured by plastic surgeons
to attract men driving by in
Porsches so sleek they slice
the air like knives,
and pass a man dressed
in impeccable black
carrying a pink shopping bag
with the head of a tiny,
perfectly coiffed dog
sticking out, next to a
ragged woman, dark complected,
head scarfed, sitting on the
cold concrete sidewalk
wrapped in a ratty blanket
a bewildered child on her lap
a battered tin box in front of her
containing two small, round, worn euros
and I thought, surely,
another revolution is at hand.
Steve Arney lives in Gold Hill; his poems have been published here and there, including once before in Boulder Weekly.
