I have an easy-open wound
from which I drew family and livelihood;
a wet wound for white company I'm paid
in brief whiffs of American wealth.
In the miserable crust of Rio de Janeiro,
I struggle hard for meager dignity.
I wait for signs and make my way
through opulent lobbies,
an anonymous woman again and again,
pleasure fountain of the jungle,
the night before business casual shoos me fro.
The sun has not yet reached my client.
Tamed again on white, transient sheets,
I fondle big-money cuff-links:
It is the morning after
a business man's slum tour.