45 degrees latitude and 120 degrees W,
a man takes his vacuum cleaner to a psychic.
The quaint name on the uber-yuppie shop
drips dollar signs, drowning the irony,
as neon flashes "Urbane Zen."
And, of course, the Lake is private.
At the equator, custom allows the hungry passerby
to eat his fill of bananas,
but not carry any away,
and a bush-willow broom
etches the dirt floor into ordered art
free from psychic intervention.
A Lexus at the curb
A harried dyspeptic numbers cruncher
A medical clinic without
A smiling worker in
a field of shining tea leaves
The great divide of contentment
measured in degrees and minutes.