I don’t make enough money to juice cleanse,
to own property, to walk into the store
with intent to purchase. My retirement account
is the one lotto ticket I
allow myself a month. To live in this
consumer age, I believe all I need
is a carbon steel pan and an island
to store all the food I don’t have,
clothes that fit my body just right
like the stuffed wallet in a rich man’s
rear end pocket, pants held up
by a luxury belt made from exploited labor.