The Gold Grill

Smiles must flash to make the customer feel white
as if Heaven’s air-conditioned clouds billow up the toga
frosting their legs, keeping them cool while I pick
pockets for the bill-of-sale with my name on it
written before my grandfather was born, how cold it is
to stand in the shadow of someone smaller; we must
dance because rattling chains make babies sleep
in blackness, they dream on my skin a commercial
where no one needs money to make beauty forever
just a man like me, willing to smile through gold.