Nonprofit Work

When the old man in pressed khakis

patted my shoulder like I was a biddable dog,

his liver-colored lips spredding into a smile, and said,

“Sweetie, you don’t realize this yet, but we’re the same,

except that I work with a different caliber of people,

the wealthy, the movers and the shakers,

eighty hours a week I work, weekends too, late nights

and cocktails with titans who grab the world by the balls,

but sweetie, like you, I make room for the little people,”

and reached to stoke my cheek, the corner of my lip lifted

before I lunged, whale-eyed, tearing two fingers from his hand

and spitting them to the floor, grabbing the thin tuft of his

scalp and throwing his feeble frame cocksure out the door.