New poem.
Cooks a hearty breakfast with privilege for fuel. Finds it
smoky and filling with a subtle iron tang under the cheesy
notes of the primary flavors.
Showers then for work under hot, hot water thanks to
privilege burning in the basement furnace. Then, warm clothes
to wear, thick carpets underfoot, fine shoes and doors
that open both ways, a solid car,
a road, a job, a team of coworkers, a good dinner out and
a drink later with that iron tang on the tongue
present the whole time, insistence
upon reminder upon demand.
It once was interesting, now is at once maddening
and integral. Comes up empty trying to name it. Thinks,
it’s not the privilege. It’s not. It’s not. Turns on the television,
then turns it off at the sight of streets of blood. Promises
to puzzle it out
tomorrow
on a full stomach.
