she briefly subscribed to The New Yorker
and wore the free tote around
to parties, the black handles draped slim over her arms
and the fabricked bottom
so obviously stamped THE NEW YORKER that it looked forced,
especially when hung against her JC Penny dress;
“It was clearance,” she says, proudly, and people give her fake
smiles. She is in the forever space between class and ambition, west egg
a ring on her left hand and east egg just a scratch on
her fingernail.
but she doesn’t care because
with that idea of new york chic
she is already just a little farther away from the foodstamps
on her mother’s counter. Generations filled up with maybe;
Maybe hers will be the last but
it’s unlikely. I guess this is what America is for, isn’t it? we all
need that green light in the dark, just ahead
and just behind.