May 8, 2009
(I was 64)
At the Goodwill I find the wood desk
I think
would fit in your life
You think
you chose it but looked to me
to okay
the price size and smell
After all
it was my car
It meant
too goddamned much to you
for me to
want to think about
and later
at the recycling center
where the
workers are so poor
they hide
the weight from the homeless
who drag
their bags onto the scale
Workers
put dollars in their own pockets
for the
pounds they do not pay
for the
glass for the dirty aluminum and plastic
Pre-empting
me you voice no protest
You take
the weightless receipt
to the
securely barred payment window
and sign
for your twenty-two fifty
“Not much
to some,” you say
“But for
me, icing on the cake”
I look at
the piles of stolen redemptions
“Where
the fuck’s the cake?”
I ask you
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