I brought strawberries with real whipped cream
to the one sitting in the sun.
He took the bowl of fruit, lifting the laden spoon to his mouth.
I’d like to sit in the sun, I said, after a long winter.
But I have to work.
I am filled with the hate of my betters, why does God not hear me?
This, aimed at the insouciant avatar I feed daily.
You speak in tongues, he said. From pure lack
of understanding, you miss the mark, lack the skill.
You keep trying to remake language in your own image,
I went inside, head hanging, and watched
bowlegged from the window
his long brown limbs reflecting the spring.
He stretched, wiping cream from his lips
with a long graceful finger, sucking it.
Red flowers wither pale.