Is it wrong to be happily served
(Latin bistro, cracked stucco)
to be served and to lean back into it,
to stretch into a pillow of worrilessness,
smile, forget where you are, indulge, splurge,
to while away prearranged units of time
and be happy?
Is it possible to be served
and not be brushed by that other world?
Can you be lost within being served
and still be alive to need?
Can you be severed from the poor?
Are stand-ins enough (the graffittid
door on Prince Street draws eyes
people pose and shoot)
Are simulacra sufficient
Is your sincere hello to the doorman
atonement to a token Jesus
Can the magnetic pull of money
be fought, resisted, transcended,
by good times with good food and good friends
Is a flickering lamp trimmed by
a silent hand from Michoacan
the good life?