It tastes of tired days
and warm, bitter privilege.
Toaster waffles from the freezer,
table syrup from the drug store
down the road from the fire escape.
Blueberries I shouldn't have bought
from a sleepy market near work.
I don't have a toaster
or even a microwave,
but I took my best shot
on the little electric griddle.
It wasn't a very good one,
the shot I took, and the griddle.
The moon would be somewhere
overhead through the smog,
if it weren't for this dull, cracked and beautiful ceiling,
and the floors of blissful ignorance
between me and the sky.
It was very little,
but I could eat,
I could work,
I could live.