As son
& mother.
Welfare.
State surplus
peanut butter,
cheese, & smiles
for Mr. Sullivan’s
monthly inspection
to certify our poverty.
Our couch
couldn’t stand
by itself,
all lopsided on
prosthetic legs:
The Yellow Pages,
upside-down
cast iron fry pan,
cushions ravished
raw to cotton entrails.
Mr. Sullivan
made it look hard,
whether we even
needed a cheap
new sofa, while I,
taught to please,
complimented
his same-same tie,
offered him water,
respectful, “Sir.”
Mother of a million
thanks, thespian.
& Mr. Sullivan
nodded fedora,
as if high courtesy.
You’re a credit to your race!
he said to me,
& decades later,
still stuck in my throat,
thicker even than
bitter government
peanut butter & cheese.