taking a seat
among unspoken elite
interloping by accident
among the fine silver,
a sliver of the ancients
alive in the modern world
we try to look the part
but are the worker-bee poets
among the gilded, idle minds
wealth indeed
like a bill fold
rotting
inside wet clothes
we chatter about France,
our travels
and scattered,
melting-pot lives;
shake hands to do our business
and vow
to dine there again
