Chipotle is run by motherfuckers. I was thinking about that today as I watched my all white office scarf down over-stuffed burritos as we dealt with financial aid at a for-profit school. This poem was going to be about that. It was also going to be way longer and better. It was a long day.
On a side-note, Chipotle "lost" one of our orders. It was giggle-worthy.
4/4/11 No Title Yet
She aced the English class on symbolism,
even though she thought it was a joke--
the concept, not the class so much.
By default the expert on any hyphenated-studies,
head of the class talking head with her mind
on defaulting--she got a part time job,
sacrificing, longing so, suffice it to say,
she was everyone’s Cinderella story fantasy--
mostly for worse.
Dad worked himself to death,
mom as the real racial other, unknown
with influence in two ways on veins;
Dad’s veins swelled from work,
pride swelled for his daughter.
He asked her what she learned at school,
in half truths she told him lots.
She never did a keg stand;
she didn’t have time for that shit.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment