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.