I don’t have to compete with any of you
Because I have removed myself.
Your brands, trends, Land's Ends,
Cannot hope to trump my duds, woven by
Cannot hope to trump my duds, woven by
Indigenous women who gossip in a language
In which colors are verbs.
As you eat your Greek yogurt and drink your
Shade-grown Guatemalan coffee bought at Starbucks,
I sip coffee that has been pooped out
By a civet, and eat quesadillas made with cheese
Prepared by Benedictine nuns who wake up
At 4 to milk Trinity, the three-legged cow,
Before the Office of Vigils.
In your Hybrid you listen to Buena Vista Social Club
And pride yourself on how international
and naughty you are (they're Cuban!),
But I take a bus with no glass in the windows to work,
Accompanied by chickens and stoic children
And a live trio of drunk octogenarians who croon
"Hemingway delira" while miraculously maintaining
Their balance as the bus dodges potholes, dogs and fallen palm fronds.
