I slurp coffee with cream
on a Lake Merritt bench
across from waters
flowing like imported coffee
into commuting mouths.
Shit. Underpaid or unpaid hands
surely plucked these Columbian coffee beans
that gives my American brain
such a sweet caffeinated kick.
Once I jolt up in denim jeans,
I spring back to the MADE IN CHINA tag
I spotted this morning
when I grabbed them
crumpled off the floor.
Shit. Underpaid or unpaid hands
surely stitched these jeans
that drape my American legs.
On Grand Avenue, I fall
into Clio’s Bookstore. On a shelf
fused with I bet imported wood,
I snatch a book on globalization.
At checkout, I get a free bookmark
and a free smile for buying local.
Shit. The sales tax I just paid
will help bankroll
the genocide in Gaza.
There’s no payment in death.
Clutching my paperback,
I sprint back to Lake Merritt
where I lean over the edge
to gape at my American reflection.
I’m lucky to still own
a heartbeat.