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.