Late-Stage Capitalism in My Kitchen

I hear something fall in the kitchen. A bowl full of marbles, maybe

a drawer of spoons. Then I hear Josey laugh so hard it makes me 

laugh too. Whatever happened in there was shitty enough to crack up 

about. This is the trick, I figure, staying loose enough to switch it up 

and see how funny it is. Whatever it is. A year and three

months since she worked, we are fighting about money, 

which for us looks like a debate about capitalism, me 

arguing it’s out to get almost everybody, trace of a dream 

where someone explained the stock market to me: an initial investment 

and the money makes money for you, like buying women

the bad trafficker guy in my dream says, while I nod along until I don’t. 

If this is what makes America great no wonder Josey’s not 

working right now except of course she’s working cleaning up whatever 

hilarious thing she spilled, stacking dishes, making more coffee, forever

planning our suppers while I sit in bed writing poems and next to a bowl

of gardenias, there for these tulip petals clattering to the top of the bureau,

holding very still so we don’t incur any more debt. So far,

so good, for America, which hilariously sucks so hard.