Walking down the street
On the way to the store
One fine summer day,
He encounters an older
Woman who looks at him
With dread and hastily
Moves away from him
As he wonders what
Just happened, later
Realizing it was what
It has always been.
The imposition of will
Requires no thoughtfulness,
Just the compulsion to force
Someone else to be a person
They are not, to demand
Adherence to some arbitrary,
Ever-shifting whim, fealty
To the pouting child who
Wants his toy right now.
He’s building a sumptuous
Penthouse appointed with
The most lavish details
And plush furnishings
For his surgically-enhanced wife
Who refuses to succumb
To the effects of aging
(Not that he hasn’t visited
Their favorite surgeon as well).
No expense is spared in
Building this magnificent
Showcase overlooking the ocean.
Once a month or so,
He tours the construction site,
Demanding that this or that
Be changed or noting that something
Isn’t quite to specifications
(A pastime his wife enjoys too).
The workers nod accommodatingly,
Finish another long shift, and
Go home to their shacks.
Predetermined sentence,
Life begun with
Severe disadvantages,
Ongoing tragedy of
Limited opportunities.
Fear and misunderstanding
From so-called upstanding
Citizens whose actions
Condemn her to spend
Time staring out a
Small window at plain walls.
It was never going to
Be any other way,
Self-fulfilling prophecy,
Discarded from birth.
Unending flow of information —
Hyper-stimulation.
Neurons firing chaotically,
Entertainment blather,
The superficial supersedes.
Like the easy stuff,
Eschew deeper meaning
Requiring extra effort —
Critical thinking,
Reflection.
The odd child,
It languishes alone,
Brushed aside, unstudied,
Ignored, but no less
Important, valuable.
They handed him his
New lock and combination.
He walked down the long
Hallways searching for
His designated spot,
A lonely number in a
Sea of bodies
Oblivious to
His circumstance.
She walks a half-hour
To the well,
Waiting her turn to
Lower a stained
Plastic bucket down
A hole to the
The brackish water
That will be in
That night’s soup.
She heads back,
Tilting to one side,
Looking down at
The garbage-strewn
Pathway, a dog
Scampering away.
Do as I say,
There are rules in this house,
Confess your trespasses,
Obey us without questioning,
Don’t stray from the norm,
Keep your thoughts to yourself.
Delicate, vulnerable beings
Ground up and extruded,
Forced into a mold greased with
Insecurity and fear.
Unmet needs, unfinished business.
Creativity, humanity desecrated.
They mean business and
Will not stop marching
Until their contemptible
Cravings are satisfied,
The urge for the next fix
Predictably – interminably
Beckoning in the distance.
Equality and fairness
Signify nothing,
Any hint of a thought
About helping anyone who
Has been felled by their
Machiavellian oversight
Is quickly ushered away.
The only goal here is
To gut the wounded creature
They disdain so much and
Lay its entrails at
The feet of their rulers.
