The elite

I used to think the elite were fluorescent tube lights. elite. elite. or sheets of shiny aluminium. wafers on my tongue, taking care not to tip my teeth. elites are triple blade razors with handles electric blue. stripes on a strip. camel-embossed envelopes. hotel sheets tucked too tight. and there lies the distance. something I can’t put my finger on. Elite is a long-legged girl on a lounger toasting an earl. I have no place for them in my home. except the glass cabinet in the dining room. where they meet and greet as trinkets. feathers floating toward them. the way a breeze blows on a sizzling afternoon. while in the middle of the ocean a yacht deck flashes SOS to earth-orbiting satellites. Elite. Elite. Elite.