Yellow
fissuring undulations
breaking through
inky navy-
street lights casting reflections on
the lake out the window.

Flecks of neon
marking locations
where the party is still raging,
where people are still
chasing the world of delirium
and ***,
breaking over distant trees.

This is the place where America's
rich come to die
after a lifetime
of toil
chasing the American dream.
And I suppose that means the American dream
is here in Florida,
where sweat never dries
and mosquitoes never sleep,
where retired bankers
and ******* dealers
can finally get their slice of the pie-
separated from the suburbs by twelve foot tall hedges
and automatic gates.

The young don't care here-
they're too preoccupied
with The Chase
and neither do the Old-
because they're tired out
from a lifetime of being young.

This is the place
where America comes
to roll over
and spend its final hours
alone,
bitter,
and wealthy,
taking naps in the sun-
having more than earned

a little rest.