“Can we not have Pride without vendors?”

my friend asked me, on the phone, after
we’d left the festivities.

                                                                    “Why does it have to be ruined
                                                                                        by commercialism?” 

I could only answer, I know
wherever there are people gathered,
they must be fed.  Even Christ

                                                     said, “They do not need to go away.  You
                                                                  give them something to eat.”

and when excuses poured from mouths,
He said,                                                       
                                                                                         “Bring them to me.” 

This the same Christ who cracked
the whip, chasing moneychangers
out of the temple:  The most righteous

anger at the intrusion of hunger
and vice drawn near the feet
of the Holy
of Holies.                        

                                                             “They paid the DJs.  There had to be
                                                               money coming in for money
                                                               coming out.” 

He continues speaking through my phone
while an app advertises the Pride Whopper.

I’d bought a crystal Pikachu.
I rubbed its little body in my hands.

I wonder at the cost
to set up shop?  Who paid
the price?  Who decides who
gets the benefits?  Who is buying
and who is bought?

                                                                                 What is it we are really,
                                                                                 truly proud
                                                                                 of?

Then again, another ad intones,
                                                                                                       who cares

when you can shop
Postmate’s 
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