poemata

we are the petty bourgeoisie
living in suburban squalor
waking with proletariat hunger
we don’t own the means of wealth
and self-worth is an illusion on a hot spring day
proportionate to the money we swipe

we are the petty bourgeoisie
dying to live in hoods that smell of plantains
that host plenty of other tongues
chinese is now thai with long-ass lines
bodegas will soon be an art installation
how quaint where workers once shopped

we are the petty bourgeoisie
living in urban luxury
waking to continental breakfasts
conquered with pieces of plastic spoons
and they still live here