“Happy Fourth of July!”

you don’t hear the bitterness laced through

the terse smile, you don’t see the sarcastic, hateful gleam

nestled in my eyes.

You are rich, you are happy in an

empty life of cars and new clothes, in that

five-bedroom house on the hill for two kids.

Your cup overflows, but damned if I get a drop.

I am young, pretty and smarter than most

of the people to grace my presence,

but you don’t care, so long as I remember no onions

on your sandwich.

A person is just a burger, a family is an order,

and I want all of them to get the hell out of my way.

Every twenty minutes, I walk out, have a cigarette,

breathe,

and then I go back in,

to shovel your shit.