Refried Beans

I want to force politics
into sensible shapes, want to
understand the nametags and fundraisers,
PAC's, abortion, and medicare, all the opposable truths
we bend and kiss, but

it's like doing Mexican night
in France; grocery stores won't cooperate,
will stock one hundred cheeses, certainly no nacho,
no cheddar or pepper jack, leaving you praying for God
to guide your reach as you stand before the more golden cheeses
with strange, foreign names;

and even then, what hope salsa, what chance corn chips,
tortilla shells, taco wraps, anything?

And even if you luck on beans and spices, you
still stand alone between God 
and the cheese,

guessing dramatically;  you won't know anything
until you've paid
and let it in
to your home.

Return to Poetry Index