Everyone at my table groans
about the dry chicken breast, while I
am so proud of myself for speaking up,
asking for a Vegetarian plate.
When the server clears the table
I acknowledge him with a smile
because life is servitude.
And he is Latin, and maybe
I flirted a little before requesting
that Vegetarian plate.
And maybe I am aware that
I am a guest today.
Here at yet another white man’s
corporate table.
And perhaps my grandmother never broke
bread with the white folks she worked for.
So I drink decaf coffee because the server offers it.
He is a graceful and dignified man.
I lose interest in the chocolate mousse cake,
with its chocolate shavings perspiring.
I convince myself that the coffee
will keep me from nodding off
to the drone of the distinguished keynote speaker.
