Hard Times

The lousy job my father lands

I’m tickled pink to celebrate.

My mother’s rosary-pinching hands

stack pigs in blankets on a plate.

Teeny uncircumcised Buddha penises

(cocktail hot dogs in strips of dough):

I gobble these puffed-up weenie geniuses

as if they’d tell me what I need to know

to get the fuck out of here.

They don’t only stink of fear.

They’re doom and shame and dumb pig fate.

I tell my mom I think they’re great.

Dad chews his slowly with a pint of gin,

and says he eats a whole shit deal

because of us. My mom’s in tears again.

I don’t know who to hate or how to feel.