Toilets of the Rich

Potpourri essence hides the vomiting stench of others shit.
Elegance. Soft-textured fabric, cotton, with stitched-on initials
of natural dominance.
A towel. From the sweat of bent, semi-feudal, semi-slave backs,
bent in unison pickin cotton in the South. Black mother, black fathers
and black babies to the sweatshop garment factories filled with the alien
women from that third world, working twelve hours a day, fifteen cents a
piece, purple legs, swollen, pus-cluttered fingers, to the suburbia sales
lady who offers the simple elegance of a personalized towel for that man
who has it all.
She, the wife, the daughter, the friend, makes the credit card
purchase smiling: Charge, please!
He, the husband, father, friend opens his gift semi-excited, gives
her a gentle kiss and a thank you. The generational sweat of black, to
Alien, to 3rd World, to suburbia sales lady, to female stripper, now hangs
in the toilette of the man who has it all.

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