Rubie Marie

She’s been cocooned in a room at the hotel
Rubie Marie for three weeks.
There have been no outgoing calls.
The inside of room 221 looks like a scrapbook –

the walls padded with a mosaic of photos,
all the same small face:

a smile like a dark crease in white bedsheets,
layers of gray on the side of a milk carton.



Rich-kid revelries
under tinted moon roofs and
out of gaping moon roofs,
purpled fingers digging into the hot rubber,
nails scratching at untainted paint

basking in the warm welcome of
white privilege,
of upper middle class
(does drugs because
parents unspent money
feels like freedom in an
underburdened bank account)

hitting sidewalks with the street
kids, shoving unlit cigarettes between
graying teeth
deliberate dishevelment toward some deplorable end

but ray bans and leather bags
stand out in the spread of
all unholy

splayed uncomfortably across
the leather trimmings of a red BMW
snorting and shooting
the way
to ten seconds of fame.