Look at them up there,
glaring down on us,
their crocodile sympathies
falling from the sky.
In great puddles
of pity.
Poking their heads over the ledge,
imagining our painful languishing
in some wheel of ceaseless
suffering, yet they do not
leave their tower,
all we see is their glare.
A silently resentful, pitying
glare,
of which we squint against,
as we accomplish the things that
must
be done, for the money, the
food and modicum of our
own power.
They look so sad behind those
watery, glaring eyes; from what I
can see from so far down below.
I feel a little bad for them in
their
tall towers and cushy Corinthian
leather chairs.
How they must hate themselves
for their successes, so much so
they allow themselves the time for
guilt,
a curious, blind guilt, of
superiority
and ineffable desire to be
charitable
and kind.
Without leaving their tower,
of course,
it’s vicarious pity of the highest
degree, pity and charity at the
end
of a very long stick, that may
have
had a little poop on it earlier.
A shaky tower, built on backs,
of the lesser than’s, and could
have been’s,
the should have’s, the wanter’s,
and the
never will be’s.
Yet shimmering and beautiful.
Impeccable and gaudy.
The ground, so firm and vast,
open and traversable to each
point on the compass in near
endless travel, eye opening and
empathetic to what’s going on
down here.
If it were easy, everyone would
be doing it, but it is hard on the
ground, scrambling and earning,
but there’s a satisfaction in the
scratching, like relief from a long
bothersome itch.
I’m sad for them;
way up in the sky,
in their helicopters,
planes, ski resort chalets;
never knowing the joys
of just making it through the day.
“Well, this is my floor, 45th
floor.
I will see you tomorrow, Jeeves,
thanks for the elevator ride,
good luck with those “elites”
at the top floors.”
I winked at Jeeves.
I went to my room in the tower.
Shaking my head at those
above.
No comments:
Post a Comment