Well-heeled, like someone's pure-bred pets, my neighbor's clients
Park their cars on his unsightly patch of gravel. They are here to hear
A band play songs they liked when they were young. No doubt,
He's set out food to eat, and, after it has gotten dark, he's paid
To have some fireworks, a potentate's supply of them, shot up
For all of them to see, and this somewhat obscene display, deducted
From his income taxes, will, he hopes, persuade his clients to
Keep handing cash to him. He'll stay rich. They'll remain clueless.
I will gaze at empty gravel once his pets have gone.