I might go broke from heart break;
a leg askew in the midst of the shin
might have been me when I was young,
save for the riches of the north
and the kindness of a system I despise.
Who am I to dream of better
for those who already have it better
with feasts and emergency care,
sliding scales and indoor beds;
the disaster of life lingering near,
not in, on, upon and without.
is it the capitalist dream
that every level rise together,
like ships in tow,
moving at the same rate
all the while the rears
will stay the rears?
is it compassion for those hurting
regardless of the relativity;
the seemingly wealthy decrepit
of America’s harvest gift,
no less deserving of better
than those in the wake of
unrelenting globalization?
The urgency of the belly
begs merely cigarettes,
and still rewards with a present:
a box filled with nothing
(
the only thing in abundance
in a world of resource scarcity
)
wrapped colorfully in pinks
and Jamaican blue
with the white bow atop.
the present is the present
and nothing less
no matter if my heart falls
to cushion the feet of the beggar
and I collapse worthless
as a month’s rent in my pocket.
the gift of nothing
has no equal, no comer after,
no higher love or lower despair –
it is the everything
that can not be given, given
with the purity of a soul
that I dream of feeling.
It is in this accosting sadness
that a clear vision of joy
appears in the looking glass
of empty boxes and bellies.
screaming at low volumes
