if you want a salad, it’s your world.

won’t it be nice to have your world in a bowl?

if you want a bowl, it’s your world too

except we’re out of bowls,

so here’s a paper plate.

if you want a plate, it’s been your world

since birth—flat, pale and water-limp

if you want birth, it’s not your world

men don’t have worlds of birth, it’s a woman’s world,

and if she wants her world, it’s her world,

and you’ll have to live without the birth, bowl or salad.

if you want the salad, it’s your world

but I’ve told you already—you’re not going to get the salad.

if you want the plate without the salad, it’s his world,

as well—a dried black meat patty,

no sauce, sans bun,

and if you want your flat, white world to be smeared black

a second time, it’s your world—orbiting around the grill—

you’ll just have to ask the cook,

whose world is now a salad.