For W.

 

Hate breaks me.

 

And you drip with

wealthy sarcasm.

 

Laughing in the face

of those who need.

 

Oh, what you COULD offer

if you had only experienced

just a little bit of what we are-

the gardeners

the cooks

the drivers

the teachers

the soldiers-

those you step over.

 

Living in nonchalance.

 

Pretending we’re doing fine.

 

Turning away,

breaking into a grin,

making a joke at our expense.

 

So you can make

your next golf shot.

 

(Please use the back door on your way out.)

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You’re currently reading “For W.,” an entry on Peripheral Vision

Published:
February 15, 2008 / 1:04 am
Category:
Poetry
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