Tools Of The Trade

All along the walls of watchtowers
that keep inner sanctum sacred
the hymns of longing
rise, supplicating for bread
and access.  With a raised eyebrow,
those inside intone spells
and make ritual gestures —

delicacy,
the tool of the upperclass
when there’s a need
to put someone back
in place;

etiquette,
a menu for delicacy,
a ghostly menace
behind it. Dig deep and see
how door holding and fork placement
condescend to some, set tiger traps
for others.

Fashion,
a uniform for separatism;
accent, a marker for acceptance or rejection;
grammar, a two-edged sword
guarding the gates of Paradise;

all so beautiful that soon enough
we aspire to our own prisons,
to acquire
our own sets of keys,
our shackles,
our marching orders.

Are we not handsome now
with our hybrid vigor
draped in such vicious elegance?