LA Tourist

“You know how you tell a native
from a tourist?” asked the damp guy
not-nursing his scotch.

			Why do they always talk to me?
			I shrug my shoulders.

“Tourists talk.”

			I shrug again, 
                        leave twenty on the bar,
			check the phone — 
                        finish the bourbon, find the keys,
			slide the ball-cap on backwards,
			position steel-rimmed sunglasses, 
			hit the mirror,

			and leave.

                       Tourist.

*

If there were other poems, they’d be HERE.

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