They’re late.
To be a master of men,
Of lowly, self-sacrificing slaves,
Is not without its disappointments.

Yet they come, come without fail
Those who have little purpose but
To grow ripe with age; shriveled grapefruits
That feed my small belly.

Their tears water the soil.
Pathetic waterfalls deserve none of my sympathy,
It’s not I who constructed
This humiliating caste system.

Nobody knows who
Owns what, or who presides
Over the deep earth
Deciding everyone’s roles.

Seek your answers elsewhere -
I slide back down to
My labyrinth kitchen, and
Crawl through days of dinners.