Deep in the limestone caves of Missouri,
The American government hoards
One point four billion pounds of cheese
For those less fortunate
Debtors, with nothing else to eat.

I remember my dad working twelve hours
Putting iPads in showers
And coming home for a beer
And the Pittsburgh Steelers
Losing again and again.

We never talked about cheese
But it laced our dreams
Every night, lying
Beneath a paper mache roof –
Musings of stability
And pools of pepper jack
Puddled in our sleepy minds.

If you’re like me,
Poor enough for EBTs,
You qualify for a block of cheese
Kept fresh, at exactly thirty-six degrees,
Just enough cheese to keep you working–
I mean living. An IV drip of Kraft singles
Into the veins of America’s poor.

Can you imagine being ungrateful?
Sure, you’re starving, sick, cynical,
But can’t you see your dear old
Translucent, toothy,
Bony fingered Uncle Sam
Arms outstretched, dripping in Velveeta
Offering you one more taste,
One more lick, a bit more
Will to wake up,
Work yourself to death,
And earn that cheese.