At the gold speckled counter, my pal in white apron—
index finger tapping his Arabic paper,
where the body count dwarfs
the one in my Times—announces,
You’re killing my people.
But in Hell’s Kitchen, even the Antichrist
ought to have coffee—one cream
and two sugars. Blessings
upon you, he says, and means it.
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.