Though she would never admit it,
She didn’t care much for
Herself and for so long
Had been told she didn’t matter
That she gave her life
Over to something,
Someone else who
Would tell her what to do,
When to do it,
How to do it,
No questions, no comments,
Complete conformity.
Thought traded for comfort.
Mind and will atrophying.
The slightest shift in tenor
Presages the impending
Barrage of vitriol and virulence
Spewed upon all in the vicinity.
Unblinking, staring at their
Immaculate shoes, the guests pretend
Nothing out of the ordinary
Is happening, not here.
Carefully selected finery,
Arranged extravagant display,
A mesmerizing feast for
Some other time and place.
Getting out of her
Car, she walks slowly
Toward the building
Where she and her
Many brothers and sisters
Grew up in an apartment
Far too small for
Even two people.
She remembers these
Sidewalks, their cracks
And buckles, the chalk
Drawings she and her
Sisters would make,
Washed away by the
First rain, the endless
Cast of characters just
Trying to make it in
A world of hard edges.
She looks up at the
Window that was her room,
Wonders who lives there
Now and vows to help
Them make it out too.
Having been what
Other people call shy
For most of her life,
Thoughtfully observing
The world without the
Hindrance of an
Endlessly spewing mouth,
She sees things that
Others don’t and
Takes it upon herself
To be the chronicler
Of the unnoticed,
The people and occurrences
Existing in quiet obscurity,
Deserving attention
Nonetheless.
When all that matters
Is tearing down
A safety net,
Dismantling vital
Institutions,
Installing a regime
That solely serves
The upper echelon,
Then it doesn’t
Mean anything when
They lie about what
Their initiatives
Will really do
To regular people,
How their cuts
Obscenely damage the
Ability of working class
People to thrive,
For democracy to function,
That the real agenda
Is to redistribute the
Wealth to a few
Lewdly engorged despots,
Mansions re-gilded in
Gold many times over.
Stop me
If you’ve
Heard
This one.
Begin story.
Stop.
I’ve heard it.
Hurt feelings.
Not as easy as
It seemed.
He’s made more money
Than he ever thought
Possible, built an
Empire that keeps
Growing at an outstanding
Pace, year after year,
The clear leader in
His field. He’s asked
To speak to business
Groups all over the world
And is always amazed at
The hush that falls over
The room when he describes
How well he pays his
Employees and how integral
They are to his success.
Humanity-choked street,
Bodies shoulder to shoulder
Hurrying somewhere.
Traffic at a standstill,
Automobiles competing with
Animals and carts.
A small stall
Halfway in the gutter,
Selling sugarcane juice.
Decaying buildings,
Edges smeared
By neglect.
An ancient woman
Sits on the ground,
Hand outstretched.
Smoke, dirt, filth
Permeate the air,
A film of misery.
The hoarders make
Sure nothing
Ever changes.
There are stories
From long ago,
When his family lived
In the old country
And enjoyed vast
Land holdings,
Prosperous mills
That produced vast
Quantities of goods,
A lavish home on
A sprawling estate,
The envy of everyone,
All of it taken
From them in an instant,
A camera capturing
A moment in time,
Planting seeds of
Rage and discord,
Lashing out at the
Thieves that came
In the night and
Separated them from
Their supremacy.
