My wife has soundcheck so
I sit in a restaurant above
my paygrade and
remember the fancy days.

I sip a seventeen dollar old fashioned
and wait for my pricy
pork shoulder, (milk-braised),
collard greens, pork au jus,
cornbread crumble
and pray it quiets the
hunger pangs hour six
post-cheeseburger.

I’ve known luxury in random moments.
Veuve Cliquot at Top of the Tower in ‘83.
Irish coffees at that lodge in Aspen.
Lockeland Table on a random Tuesday
to prove I could do Lockeland Table
on a random Tuesday
and not a birthday
or anniversary
or promotion.

My mother married up when I was sixteen,
and we learned that what we
thought was fancy
wasn’t
and what we didn’t even know
to reach for in days past
became the new bar.

And I learned how to act in fancy places.
I learned how to order
wine and what is actually done
with the cork.

Mmmm the pork shoulder is tender
and the greens — poor food made
fancy — who knew they needed
cornbread crumble, basically
cornbread croutons on a cooked
salad I would have passed on before
I knew it was fancy.

I can afford the fancy more
now than ever,
but what used to be ooo-la-la
is now just la-la and
what used to be craving
is now just appreciation.

Capitalism is funny that way.
We strive for something we’re
told we want, something we’re
led to believe is the point of
this life — having money to
publicly consume in a booth
with throw pillows behind a
suspiciously large fiddle-leaf
fig in an over-priced downtown
hotel restaurant.

The pork will be remembered,
but the next day I’ll have a
cheeseburger.
Fancy is fine, but
everyday is lovely
and comforting and
preferred in the long
run.

If I had to choose one,
I’ll take the socialism.