for the man at Grease Monkey
who opened the pit door
and shouted at the employees,
“Hey! Don’t touch the tires!!”
and made a real estate phone call
and brushed away the employees
who came to consult,
who then belligerently insulted
the client who turned down your services,
who waved your hand at the employee
trying to speak to you as if
he were a petulant fly,
who pretended that your male.
macho.
White.
Asshole.
Privilege was the ruler of this Thursday?
I see you.
I hear that voice.
And my combat-boot-wearing,
balding, tattooed companion looked straight into my knowing eyes when you left,
because
We.
See.
You.
And your voice is dying.
Your uptight,
world-is-my-oyster reign
is coming to its bitter end,
just as your former client
informed you.