olive oil.
bank of america
in a bank line.
“ninety percent of americans
are in debt.
if you’re not in debt,
you’re not an american,”
i hear a wonderfully accented immigrant (life is terrible)
telling the teller.
applying that logic,
as of today,
i am no longer an american.
and, why not, while i’m here–
i take care of my nevada-issued speeding ticket,
recenty downgraded to a parking violation.
now, that’s america.
in the parking lot,
a woman backing out almost hits me with her car.
she apologizes.
“it’s fine, honey,” i say,
puffing my chest out.
where the fuck have i been all my life?