Nothing proclaims privilege like white porcelain.
Its glossy surface reflects a prestige anyone can appreciate,
though the privilege, surprisingly, is getting harder to preserve,
even here in this milk-white marbled executive suite
populated by the pale and mostly male descendants
of white porcelain’s original beneficiaries –
all of us attired in the traditional uniform
of extremely starched ivory shirts
and aggressively angry red ties.
So privilege, nowadays, does bring problems –
though, trust me, you will get no sympathy
from the plastic port-a-john people on this.
White porcelain, even when it is safely segregated
behind a locked door, to which I, alone,
possess the code, can still get sprayed –
as happens often when I assume
a standing position of casual authority
with my hands resting gently, yet firmly, on my hips.
And, sometimes, white porcelain can get spackled,
even when I am comfortably seated, skillfully
conducting a contentious board meeting by Zoom.
Of particular relevance right now,
white porcelain can get clogged when the flusher
thingy suddenly won’t work, which,
of course, I only learn too late;
when, let’s say, a large deposit
(the only kind I make)
has been dropped at the bank.
I pride myself on solving problems - even unwieldy ones.
But how do I make peace with this unexpected imposition?
Acknowledging it makes me human,
a thought I can’t abide.
Asking for help makes me humble,
an approach I will not try.
However, ignoring it makes me privileged,
and that just feels right inside.
Plus, there’s no harm done.
Tonight it will be disposed of
by someone I do not know
and will never meet.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 