(In)Equality We Trust
Loud whispers to an instrument of metal, oblivious to my plight,
Belting tall tales of gems and treasures from her very own life,
Sights my eyes never fell privy to, unearthed from a passerby’s rife.
Her hair gleaming of 24 karat yellow gold, not plated but solid,
Teeth a blinding crystal white, unlike my own long ago rotted.
She is a polished silver spoon straight out of a glass cabinet, taken off display,
Yet shown off nonetheless, like priceless art; life’s dealer making headway.
She flitters around the city with a gaggle of her carbon copy chums,
I know their type, averting their eyes as they pass me, an unspoken rule of thumb,
And off of them gladness and ease and all things good emanate,
My own pals I haven’t seen in a while, afraid to find them frozen to a sidewalk grate.
I plead I pray I beg for her to just once look my way,
Alas, I am but the gum stuck upon her shoe, or the dust littering her ashtray,
A menace to the society of which I once triumphantly was part,
Before my fall, my demons caught up to me, as cancer to Bonaparte.
I am a different breed of exile though, the sidewalk is my Elba,
Dismissed by the powers of state, no possible happy ending to my novella,
But they wait…perhaps for a warmer body to step up or for the sweet release of death
While I ask not even for a coin to befall me, but for an acknowledgement of my breath.
There she goes again clutching shopping bags, in her Italian leather shoes,
My accessory – a sign made of cardboard, an old newspaper to sit on, filled with good news.
I am accustomed to feeling cold, yet even when not, her passing sends shivers down my spine–
Chilling how a warm blooded creature can be so heartless to one of their own kind.
She may think her breed is of higher caliber, victorious through hard work,
Doesn’t realize it is life’s lottery she has won, winnings awarding her a fickle smirk,
As she plans her next trip to the South of France, giddy at the thought of celestial skies
I gaze toward the under bridge where I pray to, in the morning, once more open my eyes.
Those that study people and the society in which they survive
Believe they have it figured out – their thoughts, their physiognomy, what keeps them alive,
But it is my entire world to see humans as they are and to silently observe,
People live in bubbles, the outside realm none of their concern.
Many are hoarders, they amass what they have, even if not theirs to keep,
Like squirrels readying for winter, except for them just another week,
Chasing opportunities to make, gain, cheat, and lie
And they say they keep the world in orbit, or perhaps are its lingering demise?
Then they frown from their castles at those living in crates,
Looks of disgust thrown our way from vermin in the rat race,
They crinkle their noses and furrow their brows–
“What a shame”, “Get a job”, hissed out their mouths.
I hear click-clacking…the woman approaching in high heeled shoes,
Making her way towards me, to greet me, to wish me a good day then bid me adieu?
No, the last second comes and she turns sharp on her heel,
I watch her part, I sigh, my hope dissipates, forever surreal.
I suppose it’s just the way it is, kings and paupers distant but alike,
Yet the kings, our great defenders, poised to expose our wounds and strike.
So I shall remain crippled behind velvet ropes, mangled by mortal chains,
But we all shall fall, break skin, and witness the same blood running through our veins.
kasia halawa