Arrogantly you stand in the corner
of an obliquely lit dining room,
never needing sunshine for your
emerald radicals bereft of chloroplasts.
Your plastic roots won't taste earth
or drink from the waters edge.

Not a phenomonon from God
or Mother Earth. Yet
you seem alive, much like
the hottest mannequins
attending any dinner party.

An orbiculate, adorned
in jade, a twiggy arm juts
slightly right, out of place.
So easy to rearrange.
We're both beautiful
but I'm alive, breathing, animated.

Your artificialn trunk sits in
a vessel nof twisted bamboo.
You and your urn, imported,
created by the calloused fingers of children
from an island which I can't pronounce.
You reek of slavery. Without essence,
a decorative graveyard of souls.
I gaze at you, your hideous
superficiality and I hear
unspoken secrets, notice the tears
of children with hard hands,
mass producing a reality
in sweltering assemblies;
another fruitless icon
of malnutrition.

Doesn't it make you care?
Who are these people?
The ones dining in polite veneer and
those working for a cup of rice.
Both starving.
What the hell is wrong with
this picture? Does it
define who I am? You?

Fuck these parties.