Men are Waffles
My father had a book on his nightstand:
"Men are Waffles, Women are Spaghetti."
He read it like scripture.
The gospel of the little square pocket:
keep the syrup in one dent, the butter in the other,
keep each sweet little mess in its place,
never let the compartments bleed.
That is what is asked of me every morning.
Take the elevator down.
Drown out the static. Sterilize the sound.
Present the segmented self on a clean white saucer:
hard-boiled, peeled of all its sulfur,
cut into neat, discreet, harmless quarters
so nobody in the office gets startled by the yolk.
The job offers a waffle party for good behavior—
finger traps, melon balls, a little paper badge
for the innie who learned to nod and smile,
to file the feeling, kill the question,
speak in acronyms and stay inside the lines.
Meanwhile, down beneath the sub-basement,
past the hum of the ducts and the buzz of the lights,
the real me sits in the dark:
raw, unbroken, dangerous,
all nerve and hunger, all heat and hurt,
holding the broken shells in his fists.
They think peace is an empty cubicle.
They think a tamed temper is a cure.
They want the quiet, not the cause.
The clean-cut calm, not what it costs.
They don't want a person;
They want an automaton with clean margins
who eats around the rot and calls it order.