Poetry

A Rumination on Imbalance

The powerful hoard power, and
the influential wield influence.
Things oscillate but mostly stay the same.
Actually, for most of us,
things just get worse.
The American Dream
is a myth, a lie
whispered in back rooms
and murmured
at garden parties.
Where these gardens are situated,
I do not know.
I have little power, and I
wield little influence.
The only keys I possess
are in my bones,
and I don’t think I could
headbutt a door open.
Nor could I pick a lock;
I’ve had no time or energy
to learn such delicate skills.
All my days
are tally marks barely adding up
to cover rent.
Tasty food is a luxury.
Every game is too much,
and every book
is a gift to myself.
I’ve already beaten this horse into a stupor.
If we get enough of us together,
and wrench bricks from the bottom,
do you think we could
topple these fucking pyramids?
I want to see them
laid to rubble,
for their bubbles of rich waste
to be exposed.
No more hiding;
come into the light,
you gross fat cats.
Your bones shall make fine chairs
for all of my friends.

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