Above the sparkling mimosa flutes and smoked salmon croquettes,
Malibu's palms sway, having nothing to add.
They have seen this all before.
On the tiny café table
Elbows press and crowd together like the subway riders
Left behind in east coast urban hell,
Where the sweaty damned compete for space at rush hour.
Live by the entourage,
Die by the entourage.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem