The past week has sucked, but here's a great poem

I've had an extraordinarily crappy week, culminating in the nadir of heinosity (did I use that correctly?) yesterday when a sweaty, quivering, red-cheeked, white-faced manager at davis' eatery "pluto's" asked me to leave because he had received complaints about my children. he brought over a "to-go" box for my salad and showed me the door. I immediately started crying (I'm very fragile at this point) and swigged as much as my Diet Coke as I possibly could, seeing as though I couldn't take my glass with me. As if pluto's is a nice restaurant where children should not be seen OR heard. I 've thought of several retorts to said quivering manager post-situation, all of which contain profanity. Kudos to dear Phoebe, who was with me, and went back to tell the idiot face-to-face that he handled the situation poorly---and then proceeded to email the corporate office of pluto's, detailing the above situation, adding that she will no longer bring her children there, and will tell all of her friends about this incident. fight the power, phoebe! ah yeah! so all i want to do is post a fabulous poem by marge piercy, the queen mother of fighting the power, but i can't find "something to look forward to" anywhere. instead, i'll post another fave:

Cats Like Angels

Cats like angels are supposed to be thin;
pigs like cherubs are supposed to be fat.
People are mostly in between, a knob
of bone sticking out in the knee you might
like to pad, a dollop of flab hanging
over the belt. you punish yourself,
one of those rubber balls kids have
that come bouncing back off their own
paddles, rebounding on the same slab.
You want to be slender and seamless
as a bolt.
When I was a girl
I loved spiny men with ascetic grimaces
all elbows and words and cartilage
ribbed like cast up fog-grey hulls,
faces to cut the eyes blind
on the glittering blade, chins
of Aegean prows bent on piracy.

Now I look for men whose easy bellies
show a love for the flesh and the table,
men who will come in the kitchen
and sit, who don't think peeling potatoes
makes their penis shrink; men with broad
fingers and purple figgy balls,
men with rumpled furrows and the slightly
messed look at ease of beds recently
well used.
We are not all supposed
to look like undernourished fourteen year
old boys, no matter what the fashions
ordain. You are built to pull a cart,
to lift a heavy load and bear it,
to haul up the long slope, and so
am I, peasant bodies, earthy, solid
shapely dark glazed clay pots that can
stand on the fire. When we put our
bellies together we do not clatter
but bounce on the good upholstery.

---Marge Piercy

[Note: I don't like the purple figgy balls image, either.]