Mar 20, 2015
it sweats black dust into the cuffs
of its pressed white oxford. buttery
as peppered grits, it grins, places a platter
of appetizers before you, and folds
down its brown tray, asking—wrong:
this / it / world where it is allowed
speech, the offensive stench of its wince
under your sizzling tilapia. you
provoke its familiar atavistic plea:
and where is your water, etc. let it
run the cooling pile back. let it
get its manager, hurry to defer harried.
[we don’t even want to see you anymore.]
you fork the still-steaming fillet.
March 20, 2015