I

The spring dawning settles down
With smells of cash and unearned gains.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out start of a dusty day.
And now a gusty zephyr wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered pages across the red carpet
And newpapers from vacant lots
Carry the beat
Of empty minds and old movie plots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-driver steams and stamps.
And dredges the last fare under the lamps.

— apologies to T. S. Eliot

“Stiff bikkies, girl.” Not enough payola.