Small victories

I saw a car

just like mine; 

same make, 

same color. 

It had, however, 

nicer factory wheels. 

I had to admit

it looked really good. 

As I drove past

I saw

that the drivers window

was covered

with a giant smear

of bird – shit.

That’s perfect. 


The privilege of the 3%

The cyclist

runs a red-light

with impunity.

He waves to us

as if to acknowledge

our adoration:

we feel no such thing.

Only a seething resentment

and baleful glares

reign out towards him.

His is obtuse,

ours is acute,

the degrees between us

cannot be measured

in the timing of a light

or the rhythm of a car horn.

We are out of phase,

this is his world

and while we are visible in it

we are not of it.