Sensing the Hamptons

Sensing the Hamptons,

private jet engines roar through the air—

            souped up Teslas try to keep up.

A sip of the richest dirty chai I’ve ever swallowed and I’m transported back to the feeling of an empty wallet.

Mansions I’ve only dreamt of affording pass in a blur outside of the passenger’s side window,

my ears ringing with classical piano tunes, upright keys pressed by talented hands—

            musical notes meant to hold on to.

And I do.

Playing pretend, dancing a novel rhythm through outer space,

I’m developing a sense for the Hamptons. 

————

Unknowingly tipping the balance,

I strut down main street

lined with expensive storefronts

and semi-stone(d?)

plastic faces that look the same

and are probably just as expensive.

Gucci sunglasses decorate every corner

barely hiding the scroll of dismal eyes

as they pierce through my body,

down towards my unkept pedicure 

and dirty city shoes.

I giggle to myself as the imbalance becomes clear

and I wonder where in the grape vines they’ve buried their souls.