Recession has come for Fifth Ave.
Furred women leave Prada and hail their cabs,
Small shopping bags signs of their thrift.
At Starbucks: free tables! And some near bereft.
Are sandwich and scone no more craved?
And what of these lattes, all tall and none grand,
Can such cure the afternoon drifts?
Glance to the left as you cross fifty-fifth;
A larva 's crept south from the Park.
A blanketed mass with a Starbucks-cup hand
Lies curled in front of St. Barts.
The city eyes pass, drifting north t'wards the Park,
Where lilies ne’er toil, but freeze in cold land.
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