Local Flavor

From my balcony overlooking the fountain

I watch a pimp in a colorful suit

Lean against a red brick wall

And clean his fingernails with a switchblade

As his girls put in work

At a nearby hotel

In the cantina near the fountain

Two policemen savagely beat a vagrant

With one holding his arms back and the other knocking out teeth

The patrons conveniently ignore his cries for help

They are more concerned with the football game

Playing on the cantina’s television

A bus pulls up by the fountain

Dropping off a small army of tourists

All carrying cameras and fat wallets

All pointing and gawking

And eagerly devouring

Every morsel of local flavor