My toaster

It was white and bought at Target.

Bought upon the many-layered suburbs of Chicago.
It served me warm toast on cold mornings,
Scrunching snow, shuffling silently upon the grass.
Cutting through Nichols Park between Kenwood and Kimbark
(there was a Kenwood, too, back home, but different than this),
Past where Margeaux lived
(She was pretty, but had a poor complexion, and looked as if she may cut her own hair,
But had eyes that could see into your soul and a passion for life,
and her lips were beautiful and her skin was soft and warm),
past where I should have lived, except exiled almost to the 40s.
And into those illustrious buildings, where I did not belong,

But they did not know.

Those little boys and little girls, hadn’t seen what I had seen,
Hadn’t sold their blood for booze and hadn’t been in jail.
Hadn’t loved whores and thieves and hadn’t joined their ranks.

And, so, when collectively they looked down their Ivy League,
NYC,
Prada-wearing noses at me,
I told them where I’d been,
And what I’d seen and done and been and was and am.
And laughed at their shock.
And reveled in their ostracizing.

You cannot hurt me worse than I’ve hurt me.
You cannot even reach me.
You are from someplace different.
And you can have no toast.