Dear Me,

Today I became (gasp) P O L I T I C A L .


Three Days a Week


Sirs, do you agree it is in bad taste
to bring guns here?

Will we carry them to the table?

I must object, as you can see, my apron
has no pockets.

Will we be given soup?

There are children who are listening,
little finger holes in the rolls
are sure signs of this. Bullets
there are bullets here

the same as burger joints
across the street from burger joints.
What is and what should never be
is the entrée served every Tuesday
there is war.

Are Tuesdays everywhere served such rations?

Funny of you to ask this now
with three days left a week
Soup Du Jour recycles easily,
meals are spooned only to those
without rat-a-tat tongues.

OH! So you are against US.

Is this a question?

You are thankless, Ma’am
we are sure of sour flavors.
Uncle Sam should have your heart
served to him on rice.

This would be your right, Sirs,
but might
I warn you that in ten minutes lunch prices
change and the cost of a good meal is gone.

Do you mean higher?

I mean exactly as once I meant to serve one way
to all ways seven days fresh
yet different. Now, no way
is each day uncertain, and this, Sirs,

is an old plate of chewy heart on refried rice
served two days, then
one day ‘til
no shoes, no shirts, no service.