Machete elbow of camera slashing pictures
out of context: the local real-estate

photographer. On waffle-slab concrete we chortle
through lunch with plastic sporks and smoking

secretaries. Prick of conscience, Father Flynt
drives by in his leather Cadillac. Parking

valets in mustard turbans throttle Jaguars
in reverse, their breath tickled with curried

heat. The Indian place serves phat amberjack
chapati but a lackadaisical mulligatawny.

The red dots on the server’s forehead and keyed map
indicate: You Are Here. Boffins of boondocks

with grant funds study the family of lilac-throated
hummingbirds, oddly at home in the corporate

trellis defining the plaza. Entering the software
building, with fuchsia pumps and bag, a soon-to-be

flatbacking hooker carries her box office
with her wherever she goes. Her breasts are

insincere. The ataractic hum of vented steam
cushions sun glare and snarly three-class jets.

A gray-uniformed security guard on his midday
rounds watches the bird-kissing scientists and says

speaking of research he’s seen a pack of coydogs
wandering through here at night, eyes shining

in the beam of his flashlight. He spotted them
running down the stopped UP escalator thinking

at first they were stray shepherds. The beep beep
beep of a backing Starbucks truck ends his story.