we refused to pay for heat
because fruit spoils more slowly in an icebox.
i walked out to find
boiling pots of pasta
and a breadpan full of sauce on the stove.
we ate like kings!
now, though, rummaging leftovers with my hands
from those pans colding and hard,
it is the food of the poor,
and a more honest class distinction becomes clear.
do i look foolish standing here?
with one hand in my pocket,
with my scarf draped over my neck,
with a face full of a cold
22 years of pretense?
breaking a crust of bread in half
i stopped to wonder
to wonder
to wonder what?
how i would write about it
and so immediately stopped
to wonder something more important
(and did not write about that)
***
Christopher Dino is a graduate of Hampshire College, is 23 years old, lives in Worcester, Massachusetts, and writes poems sometimes.
