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I hid myself in the far corner of the room
as they gathered around the cauldron to strip those absent from their presence
of their humanities and their realities
replacing indiscriminately their identities with
home made labels and tags
I watched
as your name was placed in the large boiling pot to cook
until every edge turned crisp and golden brown
they cackled
about the way you could stretch a dinner and feed your kids for weeks at a time on a 17th century salary
I could never remember them being hungry
they howled with laughter
at the way you moved from place to place faster than an escaped convict
I could never remember a time when you were homeless
they pounded their fists and raised crooked fingers
when someone mentioned that you seldom stayed home long enough to remember the names of your children
I could remember when you worked two jobs
but never missed a PTA meeting
having heard enough
I rose from to my feet and strode briskly to the pot of boiling water
upsetting it into the laps of the hosts
as they wailed in pain
I reached inside and removed your name
although it was warm
I held it in front of me
admiring its golden finish
and then
I took it home
