Sometimes the couch
has just enough
to buy the day old bread
from a store whose employees
barely feed themselves.
There are days of only one meal.
There are days of none.
From the bottom of the nation
no voice is heard
because there is no money
to make it heard
above the broadcast shouts
of well-fed men
who pound the table
with their meaty fists,
to complain about
they who have sallow faces
or the most hated color
of today's empty stomachs.
Off to war go the children
of the poor
who send home bread
or themselves in a box,
to make the pockets bulge
of the hand slammers
and the lip vibrators.
More rockets than empty pockets.
More bombs and hungry moms.
More guns to stun the runners
who have no limousine
in which to preen.
Money speaks loudly
high above the proud
who force themselves
to beg a dime from orators
who shine so brightly
on the nightly news.
If lassitude is crass
it is because the masses
cannot speak above a thirsty whisper.
This sound echoes in an empty tin.
Thin is in and pants fall down,
hand-me-frowns from facial muscles,
racial tussles about which
the white men crown themselves
with high and mighty words
for a hungry child
in the wilds of dying city.
It's a pity they can't speak louder
with the freedom of speech
their fathers never earned
on the minimum wage.
Too many rules spoil a conversation
and so does too much money.
Barry G. Wick
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment