poem of the day 11.13.15

upgrade

friday night

i remember when friday night

used to feel magical

now i got a representative

from the phone company

pounding at my door

he’s black

i don’t want to seem rude

by not answering the door

i don’t want to give the white people

in this neighborhood and this country

a worse reputation than they already have going right now

so i answer

and say before he can say anything

what in the hell are you doing working on a friday night?

three vodkas in

and i’ve already forgotten how america works

how it works us at its own convenience

he says, time for an upgrade

starts talking phone and internet and cable packages

while i stare at my withered body

withered face in the hallway mirror

thinking something different

so i say, come on, man

five days of having people talk at me

cry at me

scream at me

make accusations at me

man, these three vodkas don’t want to hear

about some multinational, monopoly phone company upgrade

that’s going to hit my wallet like a russian heavyweight

then i swirl the half-full vodka tumbler

for good measure

say, can’t you see the importance of what’s going on here?

he says, let me come inside

five minutes

we’ll have vodka together

we’ll talk about an upgrade

my vodka…is all i can say

i shouldn’t be so covetous at that

it’s bottom shelf

three vodkas on a friday night that used to be so magical

and i’ve already forgotten

what america allows me to drink

he says, well, when would be a good time

to come back and discuss this?

says, tomorrow morning

before i can even slur out a response

i tell him

tomorrow morning will be hangovers

and a sixth day of work

and if you come knocking on my door then

we’ll be having a different kind of conversation

aw man, he says

he shakes his head and walks away

end of sales pitch

end of the upgrade

and i forgot i was tonight’s appointed ambassador for white america

down here in the rat’s ass end of brooklyn

a touch melancholy

i close the front door and kill the drink

visions of a fourth vodka dancing in my head

as my wife says from the kitchen

you were rude to him, you know

you’re always rude

when people come and knock on our door.