What you see in the mirror
is a cake. You eat that cake and get
and you blame it on the Mexicans.
A cake. You sleep at night
swaddled in your delusions.
Who hurts you? Is it the maid? Is it
the brothers who cut your lawn?
Or is it the chicks
who clean the shit from the lip of your toilet?
I’m betting it was the Arabs.
The trouble with other gods
is that they’re as real for the infidels
as they are for you.
I bet it was that Indian
who took your IT job.
He eats what he can find.
It isn’t cake, and he isn’t fat.