Good Life

Nine women at brunch all order eggs

benedict. I laugh at how boring my fury.

This ambition to feel myself closer to an art:

what distinguishes me from the people

who order their ribeyes well done.

I want to tell the rich girls I once had a good life.

I spoke French and wore my skin tight.

My Range Rover was green and men touched it.

Now they ask where I'm from and want me

to commit some truly Asian acts.

So I step on a packet of ketchup

and ruin their weekend chinos.

Happy as can be to ching chong

my way out of this interaction.