On Poverty / For Those Who Have Cared For Me For Just a Wedding

By Hillary Steinberg

On Poverty

 

Bare knuckles

scrape by

on the bottom of the barrel.

I bob for paychecks

but is it treading if I am always underwater?

I lease my existence month to month

from babes with mouths full of silver spoons

who extoll the values of

travel

relaxation

self-care

consumption

as the real cold hard wealth.

Tell that to my 401k as it builds lactic acid

as I outrun the metallic kiss of the barrel of

another goddamn heat bill

planted between my shoulder blades.

They romanticize the grit under my fingernails

as I claw out of the red again

but concrete shoes keep me grounded.

I thought the constant pounding

was part of the chase

but it is my own heavy footfalls

on the hamster wheel.

I'm sure if I found a way out of this

that would be overdrafted too.

 

 

To those who have cared for me for just a wedding

 

Weddings,

in all their sugary spectacle,

are odd places to be perpetually single.

I put little importance on marriage myself.

I feel no ill will to the knot-tying

but often I am without a plus,

marooned at the island of the miscellaneous friends table

next to the novelty photobooth or build your own cupcake bar.

These are social events under the dressing, after all,

so I can always bum a friend during the mismatched vows

just for the night.

It can be an acquaintance I haven’t seen since college

or a coworker from another department,

a cousin of the bride’s I have heard so much about.

In a certain playground magic,

we share smiles and finger hors d'oeuvres recommendations

brought together by nothing more than a shared love of the groom

and a distaste for the father of the bride dipping his speech into misogyny.

The needles moves from sufferable to mildly enjoyable

when there is someone to make sarcastic eye contact during the macarena

or gossip with about how the drinks are hosed down.

We are destined to know each other for the eternity of someone else’s declaration of love.

We will exchange numbers,

and I could tell you about their failed first marriage

or how they’re afraid to have kids in a dying world.

But sure as I am dodging the bouquet,

and resisting getting set up with a cousin’s uncle’s son,

I will never hear from them again.

And I consider it strangely beautiful

as I think of the people who have passed through my life.

These temporary companions are perhaps the shortest term rentals

for the connection is broken once the party bus turns into a pumpkin.

However brief the flash of the photographer's gaze

they have touched me.

But of those I have loved,

I am especially grateful to

those who care for me for just for a wedding.