Beer Pairing with Bullshit

The cart barricade shunts us

suspects past the wary checkout lord.

No one sane buys salad at midnight,

so management routes us to chips, beer,

and night-checkout man, tall and fifty.

We of the early morn file through

his glare that roves our

pockets for bulges and

rolls a teacher-poet

into the hoi polloi so that

for a time I do belong here,

for a time I am not marked

by education and station in

this low wage GED town,

my politics temporarily

indistinguishable from the camo-clad

MAGA man who also heads for beer:

comrade of twilight hours,

brother of the empty fridge.

They shelve the Bud and Keystone

an aisle apart from oatmeal stouts

and wittes. I meditate on pairings

for spinach-artichoke dip.

Nothing shouts out privilege

so much as the desire to doff it,

like a handcrafted cap.

My compatriot carries Coors

toward the self-checkout machine

that declines his card; he curses,

night check-out man scowls.

I pay and pass unobserved.

The truth is, I lack

sufficient they to feel

a bona fide we.

The truth is, I moved

to a town that will never forget

I’m from elsewhere.

The truth is, my beer

tastes delicious, and I deserve

dislocation and scorn.