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Christine Barba

You look at your nails, the red paint cracking,
With unpredictable zigzag patterns. “I think
I need a manicure,” you say as you digest the
Pink salmon, that was on your plate a second ago.
“So go get one,” your husband replies, nonchalantly,
Wiping fried calamari crumbs off of his Alligator polo.
You ignore him, annoyed that the waiter is taking so
Long, returning with your third glass of red whine.
You look at your watch; two minutes have passed.
Some grease rests on your upper lip, but you dab it,
With the restaurant’s monogrammed napkin,
And it disappears like the money you throw at the clerks
Working at upper scale department stores where you
Feel satisfied, buying $3,000 purses; they’re name brand.

On the cab ride home, you pride yourself on the
Five dollar tip you so generously gave the waiter.
The bill was $125 dollars, but you remind your
Husband that five dollars was all the man deserved.
“The service was terrible,” you say shaking your head.
The taxi driver rolls his eyes, but neither of you
Notice, as you rest your eyes, eager to use the
New perfumed bath oils that you bought while
Your husband made deals with the hedge-shaper.
Against your better judgment, you pick up a tattered
National Geographic, that lay at your feet.
A bony African child stares at you from one
Of the magazines pages and you tap your husband.
“Would you look at that scrawny thing?” you say.
But your phony remorse is drowned out by
The city lights, honking taxis, and pedestrians.
And so too you cannot see or hear

Wide-eyed children staring at unpredictable zigzag
Cracks forming on mud huts that are their homes or
Their raw bodies, slowly diminishing, because
Their dinners are made of the same material as their
Homes, and mud is all calories, no nutrition. You
Cannot see a dying mother waiting eagerly for her
Son to return from the well for water, because her
Newborn child might not make it into the morning.
And the mother who can only wipe her tears with
Her rough skin, as she watches her child throw up
What little food he has in his tiny body. No, you do not
Know any of these children’s names like you do the purses.

But your brothers and sisters must be satisfied with
The grains of rice that are donated to them, while you
Smirk, pleased that you robbed the waiter of money that
You might treat as a penny anyways. The water that they
Bathe in is not clean, but those children widen their eyes,
Gaping, as they hear tales of those humans on the other side of the
Globe, and ask their mothers and fathers, “Who are those good people
Who get to be kings and queens?”



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