His was a BMW 7-Series

Sitting at Jiffy Lube

Waiting for service

Beside my hesitating SAAB.

His phone conversation

In the waiting room

Was intended for all ears

And I imagine Gatsby with a smartphone

Annoying those around him

With “Old Sport” addresses

and cliche middle class taste,

Amped up to his wealth level.

Enter BMW, associated with more

Up and coming assholes

Than any other auto brand,

Waiting for Mister Important

To finish booking flights

To remain higher than his background.

Trying desperately to seem cultured

While discussing Boston but

Not knowing whether the local river

Was the Charlestown, Charleston,

No, wait, the Charles.

Wanting us all to notice he was spending

$1200 on his kids’ spring break

Tickets and assuming their friends’ parents

Were doing the same, while the waiting

Area held three others who more than likely

Never went on any spring break

Let alone one sanctioned by BMW-driving

Daddy warbucks who then reverted

To bathing in political incorrectness

As if he was in a hot tub with Donald Trump,

Telling the woman on the other line,

“I heard the bosses down there

Are, I would say slave masters,

But that’s not politically correct anymore,

So I’ll say work masters, since

Almost nothing’s politically correct

These days.” And I really

Start to wonder when,

Since 1865 or so,

Was it politically correct to use

Slave master as a way of describing anyone,

Even before “politically correct” was a term

Used to separate those with or without

Class, tact, taste, and education--

Something clearly not required to be fifty

And white, sporting spoiled kids,

A pretentious car, and dreams of

Owning the company that makes you

Fly to White Plains twice a month,

But somehow knowing deep down

That your own slave master won’t let you

Be more than the slave driver of your BMW.

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