She counts the moves from car to door to car
again—just as she counts keystrokes on one
of her four computers to find the route
of least effort—how to hold the door key,
whether or not to leave the door ajar,
how fast to move so falls won’t slow her down
and why, oh, why, forget her cell at all?
Why go back to get it? Why own a car?
a wireless phone? Four computers—well,
three plus Kindle and the phone is not smart.
She imagines TV-CSAs aimed
at her with an impoverished someone
repeating her worries and then walking
away while laughing hilariously.
How did she not notice that poverty
elsewhere is in reverse ratio to
the content of her luxury jail cell?
She is locked into privilege, a trained
carnival bear. Onlookers shake their heads.
How much would she give up to have no more
than her fair share? Her car? Her cell? Her home?
She could walk, could use one computer or
use none, could share her apartment again
as when she was a socialist, one who
didn’t believe in private property,
one who needed a clearness committee
when led to own her own piece of the rock
20 years ago. Is she still faithful?
Does she still have a place in the food chain--
or is struggle remote? And if so, why?
She reads and learns. She heals and does-less-harm.
She gets more physical than logical,
leads less with emotions than prayer, writes with
yearning and abandon, thinks and rhymes.
She will not laze away her privileged time.
(April is International Poetry Month.)
My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright.