Choices
Privilege and money bring
choices of lifestyles and
fashion and diets and 10
brands of craft beer.
The hungry don’t choose
gluten, organic or vegan,
how far the food comes
from, or how it is raised.
The naked don’t choose
between cotton or poly,
Target or Gucci, or this or
last season.
The poor don’t choose
between blinds or drapes,
throw pillows for beds
that nobody sleeps on.
I’m proud and ashamed of
status I buy—what everyone’s
wearing, my new jeans bought
torn, their hems left ragged.
As if they were worn out.
As if I were poor.
As if I needed ripped jeans.
As if I had no choice.
The Waiter
I serve you dinner, the closest
you’ll be to a lord though
instead of pouring your wine
with gloved, disembodied hands,
I break through the third wall,
discomforting us both.
You don’t want to know my
name. You already know I’ll be
your waiter tonight.
We’ll never smoke together in
the alley, put our fingers in
the same bowl of chips,
leave coffee rings on the kitchen
table. No. You can afford to be
lord for a night and I can’t afford
to refuse you.
Be First to Comment