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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