So afraid of the churning
Rabble of miscreant panhandlers
Maliciously trying to get
Their grubby hands
On his wealth,
He went to great pains
Minimizing and demonizing,
A self-appointed,
Scepter-shaking saint,
Piously declaring
Them trash.
A mundane street
Racked with fear.
Unfulfilled dreams
Hastily banished.
Superficial conversations
About nothing important.
Minimizing risk,
Averse to change.
Laughter suppressed,
Letting life happen to them.
They stand around,
Chests puffed out like
So many parading turkeys,
Trying to best each other
With stories of dubious
Exploits and successes.
The same anecdotes bandied
About with little variation
From year to year,
Reliving past glories
That never existed
In the first place.
Gathering after gathering,
No change or growth
Infiltrates their ritual,
Just obstinate sameness.
She peruses a beloved album
Of fading photographs and
Remembers the days when she
Used to walk to school with
Her brother and sister.
There was never any question
Whether her teachers would
Be there, her desk, books,
Exhilarating days spent
Learning, laughing, growing.
She goes for a stroll,
Passing the empty shell of
What used to be her school,
Left to decay instead of
Welcoming eager children.
He lost count of
How many times
He had to
Bite his tongue,
Change his
Narrative in order
To not elicit
Prickly reactions,
Reflexive retorts from
A frightened squid
Spewing ink,
Clouding the waters
Of understanding,
Face an impassable
Wall built to keep the
Barbarians out,
Endure a superficial
Relationship built
On strict hierarchy,
Avoid being himself.
They sit down to
Play a game but it
Soon becomes clear that
This is much more than
An innocent diversion.
The contest becomes
Heated, mirth gives way
To intensity, each one
Of them trying to vanquish
The other, neither
Willing to cede an inch,
Risk losing face.
Eventually something has
To give, the adult
Jubilantly trounces the
Child and gloats a while,
What passes for fun.
He’s angry all the time.
He’s been this way his
Entire life, as long as
He can remember. He says
It’s because he has passion,
Conviction, but it’s
Really about the other things
He’ll never talk about
To anyone and tries to
Pretend never happened.
She says she’s happy. Long hours
Pass obsessing about others and what
They think. All the while a small voice
Deep inside reminds her of events
She’s desperately trying to forget,
Memories time doesn’t smooth.
Continue looking outward where the
Answers aren’t. Seek solace in attention
From anyone and comfort from mistaken
Sympathy. When the world is about others,
It isn’t about you.
One time, unconditional, unexpected,
Unadulterated by churning insecurity,
Endless pins piercing skin, gradually
Increasing intensity, perpetual lack of
Feeling. Say something, do something
Different, differently, deferentially,
Deliberately aid someone, something
Bigger than you, though impossible.
Puffed chest and blustery proclamations,
Interminable, unrequited, unalleviated.
