You will never star in Titus Andronicus,
but on the other hand, your hair will
never be flat, and you will be impervious
to insult, real or perceived. Most of us

will hate you, but how you will deal
with that is to build yourself a hut
out of Styrofoam in the middle of
a major grocery store somewhere

in a town of your choosing, and
hand out cocktail franks on picks
until you are escorted out by
store security, your hut broken

into tiny pellets that someone
will have to sweep up. But that’s
not your deal, the sweeping.
That’s up to the guy with the

broom and the whistle in his heart,
and the hump on his back, stooped
under the weight of all the deals
he’s made, all his days of dealing.

For NaBloPoMo and PAD Challenge, Day 15 (prompt: a poem about trade-offs.)