Peanut butter, window shutters flutter.
Yellow sunbeams, dusty TV, and
apathy. I lick the sweet
labor—blistered hands and twelve-hour
shifts—and I swallow, add some jam and
strawberries. Far away, exploited kids
and I don't give a ****.
I want peanut butter, pleasure, and
suffering plantations salty with
sweat and skinny families. I want
viscous apathy, yellow tragedy:
a burnt PB and J offering.