There’s Even an Accent for the Rich

Quinn McIlhone

You drop your g’s

after only a few days

in Florida.

That man is blockin’

mah ack-sess, you say,

slamming the car

into reverse.

When challenged,

you allow

you’re a verbal chameleon,

among other things, because of

the immigrant experience.

South Ocean Boulevard

a riot of colour and light

as we roll past the estate

of the late Beatle

and divert to the hotel

where the Kennedy died,

en route to Worth Avenue

to check out the rich.

They have all been cut,

so people look nice

but faces have no character.

The men wear supple leathers,

the women full-length furs,

even though it’s so warm

we québécois in T-shirts

are lightly glazed with sweat.

In cities one does museums,

in Palm Beach it’s galleries

with Warhol silkscreens

on the walls and dealers

speaking grandly on the phone

of five-figure sums.

We’re intimidated

until we realize everyone

is weird but harmless,

and we begin to laugh

on picking up

there’s even an accent

for the wealthy.

I resolve to get rich,

richer than John Lennon,

richer than Andy Warhol,

and offer to treat you

to an ice-cream cone.