He doesn’t feel good
About himself, hasn’t
Come to grips with
Some, if not all, of
The questions that
Keep him from sleeping.
He attaches himself
To promised comfort,
Quells his doubts
By pressuring others
To do the same,
Stumbling together in
Willful ignorance,
Unopened eyes,
Closed hearts.
Tension-filled gait,
Taught face,
Clutching phone,
Walking determinedly
Toward unseen goal.
One look away from
Umbrage.
One comment away from
Explosion.
One step away from
Meltdown.
Keep it together,
Barely.
He doesn’t ask questions
Because he’s afraid
Of the answers he
Might hear.
This leaves only one option:
Talk all the time,
Fill up the space
With shallow blather.
At least this way,
He assures himself,
They won’t
Be on to him.
A superficial being
Desperately trying
To avoid
Looking at itself.
At some level,
No doubt buried in
The deepest recesses
Of his psyche,
He realizes the words
Coming out of his mouth
Are hurtful.
Cold indifference,
All-consuming fear,
Learned at the
Receiving end of
Harsh punishment,
Propagated without
Conscious thought.
Every single answer on
A lovely tidy platter placed
Over a yawning chasm
Drawing every bit of matter
Toward its voracious mouth
Lined with sharp teeth and
Rampant uncertainties.
The stuff of life covered by
A gleaming lid promising
Complete absolution from
Experience, courage, joy.
Walks around in a
Cozy, clueless cocoon,
Spouting off nonsense
As if it were true.
Says anything and
Everything she wants,
Soiled, sordid
Inner process revealed.
Cruel conditioning belies
Inexistent contrition,
Catatonic state of
Unmindful destruction.
Something slightly off,
Vaguely strange.
Stiff, uncomfortable
In social situations,
Overly serious, ill at ease
Interacting with others.
Conversations oddly
Reminiscent of high school.
Inflexibility, stodginess,
Tradition trumps all,
Little tolerance or interest in
Change or progress.
Good old days that
Never existed reign supreme.
Maudlin memories of
Idealized order and conformity.
He smiles gleefully
And declares that
Money is all that
Really matters.
He retires to
His palatial mansion
Where the private chef
Prepares him a meal.
He keeps busy,
Keenly aware that
Time is money and
Idleness is weakness.
Not a single
Day goes by when he
Doesn’t fend off
A perceived rival.
He fights to the end
To preserve what’s his,
A snarling beast guarding
A horde of gold.
Never a day
Dedicated to
Becoming a
Better person.
Outside a warehouse building
In a tattered part of town,
They line up waiting for
Their bags of food,
Children in tow.
A year ago they would have
Laughed at the idea that
They’d be here with
All the people they
Used to ridicule.
Now they’re part of it,
But looking forward to the
Day when they can go back
To exactly who they
Were before.
