lunch hour poem

if this were Paris
I would be allowed
to drink a good Bordeaux
with my open face sandwich
and have a cigarette or two
without offending anyone

if this were San Francisco
I would be allowed
to eat down by the bay
sharing my sour-dough
with the seagulls
as they come by
to say hello

if this were Mexico City
I would be allowed
to come home for a
good meal in a warm home
and a cool nap
as the world outside
slowed down

but this is Edmonton
and I am not allowed
my drink
my smoke
my nap
without pissing off the boss
so I eat some Corn Flakes
and a granola bar
before I head back out
the door to a meeting