Fresh Meat

The silver urn is sweating, boiling since the war,

and I am the only one sitting near the door

without a head of silver or a gold-plated watch.

The coffee tastes like pennies and a heavy, burnt Scotch.

They pass around the cookies, stale and tasting of tin,

deciding if the neighborhood should let the struggle in.

I’m the youngest in the room by a good thirty years,

watching my deposit disappear into their fears.