This poem first appeared at my Substack site.
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The women of Algiers in their posh apartment
built by Frank Gehry or one of his enablers
from the Baroque Embassy full of hot spies bent
on sensorial persuasion, like Clark Gablers,
are sitting pretty, except for the Afro maid,
six months away from a gig at Aunt Jemima's
pancake house, typecast again, and natch underpaid
by the Mighty Whitey massah in pajamas.
.
There's a bong in the middle of the floor, smoked out,
and the glazed women's eyes suggest hashish and hemp,
and you wonder pointlessly, with them, slave to doubt,
and a desire for overgarlicked Moroccan shrimp.
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