The Top of the Garbage Heap (a poem)

I grew up upper-middle class.
I wasn't flung onto piles of cockroach traps.
I didn't go to sleep with the spiders and ants.
I didn't shop at thrift stores.

My blood fell on new tile floors, was wiped up with Kleenex, and was covered with Band Aid.
My neck was burned with Conair.
My throat was choked with Dial and Irish Spring.
I burned my knees and nose on Persian rugs.
I cracked my skull and hips against antique cherry furniture.
I was cut on priceless broken Christmas ornaments.
I ate Green Giant lima beans scraped out of a sparkling new trash can.
My tears fell on expensive Egyptian cotton.

I grew up in a more insidious dung heap, one that smelled like air fresheners and expensive French soap.

Abuse knows no social class.