Brunch in Tampa
Let's let the waiters have their say. Let's let
The ones who took the bus to set the silver
As you drove, who crossed the desert
Overnight, describe their versions of
Privation as you stuff your bloated face.
Let's let them ask how much you need.
Your hair is perfect, and your teeth.
Your house is large. You make a lot
Of money from your leather chair,
But you complain they're not enough.
You want for nothing, but for this:
Some proof that you and yours are
Grand, and all these others, unlike
You, are wretched, and always will be.
You cast about for confirmation.
Let the waiters say.
poem by Lawrence Beck
Added by Poetry Lover
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