His life is
An ugly grimace,
A tawdry horror
Of pain and anger
Under a fetid pile of
Repellent cockiness
And a heart
Wrenched from him
A long time ago.
It happens again,
And I’m not quite sure
What to do about it.
One thing I know is
That there’s absolutely
Nothing I can do about it.
I’ll sit here and wait,
Hoping that it doesn’t
Recur, though it will.
A small gesture
Feels so large
When one has been
Toiling away without
Perspective, the
Horizon being only
What is directly before
One’s eyes rather than
The splendid whole.
Thinking, behaving
In unison,
Each exactly as the other,
No variation,
Awash in uniformity,
Ignoring beauty,
Possibility.
They screech and howl
When the people they
Don’t deem fit get any
Kind of help from the
Government, while
Conveniently looking
The other way when
They or someone they
Approve of receives
The same assistance.
I realized something was
Wrong the moment I saw you,
Though I desperately tried to
Pretend I didn’t know.
So much time and energy
Invested in something so temporary,
A fleeting moment’s peace,
Short-lived reassurance.
Changing direction,
I hope no one recognizes
What’s going on,
When it suddenly collapses.
For a while
It was no longer happening.
They wondered why.
It all returned to
Normal after a while,
Unfortunately.
He sits on his comfortable couch
In his comfortable house
Comfortably talking about
How uncomfortable it makes him
When one of those homeless
Lowlifes walks down his street
And how he’s going to
Do something about it someday.
At the end of another
Day on the picket line,
Shouting herself hoarse,
Enduring taunts from
Constricted, angry faces,
Walking miles so that
Others might not have to
Do the same, toiling on
Behalf of the less fortunate
Who have no voice,
She puts her coat in the closet,
Throws on some comfortable
Clothes and lies down
On the couch, quickly
Dozing off to dream
Of fewer battles.
