The Catholic schoolgirl on the number 2
declares I look like Uncle Penneybags,
“Monopoly!” she yells. Her friends in blue
St. Michael’s uniforms endorse the tag.
It happens when I shuttle in the tux,
my rented Mariachi rig, this suit
of penguin torpitude, the million bucks
routine. But Uncle P? That’s pretty cute–
the Parker Brothers Millionaire. I wish
I had a quarter of the attitude,
a quotient of the automatic swish
Manhattan subway Catholic girls exude.
Their impious affront would not prevail
if I could come back quick with: “Go to jail!”