In honor of my sweet niece, Picket, who may encounter this situation standing in line at the Pig once she's become famous (isn't she already?) enough to be recognized there. Not a humorous poem, but one that will make you stop and think, especially about names and what they mean. (And aren't we still discussing a name for my OTHER niece, Amanda?)
The poem is all about appearance/reality as well. End of poetry lesson.
Men Who Buy Lunch At The Pig
His eyes are like a flame of fire. . .
and he has a name inscribed that no one knows but himself. . .
Jeans raveling over their boots,
shirts hanging out of their jeans,
they wear their names stitched on
for forgetful men who pay their wages,
but one in line is startled when he is called
by name, as if he might have worn
the wrong shirt; then he resumes staring
down past the pocket that names him.
Chicken with potatoes and gravy and peas
scooped into sectioned Styrofoam plates
give-away day-old chocolate chip cookies
quarts of drinks for a gallon-sized thirst
and the essential cordial, two packs of Camels,
look lady, hurry it up will ya
the others are waiting in the truck
the boss is waiting, and I’m sick
of standing here waiting for you;
you should be the one shoveling dirt,
lady, if you can’t figure one simple price
the only way I’m going to have a good day
is to get out of here in time for a smoke
"Thank you, M’am," he says,
naming her with generic respect,
reaching for his prodigal lunch.
By the way, why didn't someone worn me that blogging is as addictive as nicotine? I'll work on the old notebook another day. Now I must crack the whip and get myself back to the writing grindstone! Thwack! thwick!