“They never pay the slaves enough to get free.” Charles Bukowski
How many are still waiting on that $1200 check?
The one-time check
How long did the corporate honchos wait for their money?
I bet no CEO had to navigate a jammed website.
One America for the rich, another for the working class, the poor,
The expendable.
It’s a story as old as the world, ruler and ruled
Master and slave,
Chosen few and condemned many.
The American Dream is as hollow as a chocolate Easter bunny.
If dark-skinned men in camouflage vests, AR-15’s
Slung over their shoulders, holstered sidearms, stormed a legislative
Body anywhere in America,
The state would shoot them dead. The media would call them
Rioters,
thugs,
A threat to public safety.
We’re born into this, Bukowski said, no choice over where or when
Or to who,
But all leaving by the same exit,
ticket punched in advance.
A beautiful spring day in a pandemic,
Hummingbirds and Monarch butterflies, a sleek crow
Sitting on the back fence; lavender in bloom, Mexican
Sage, crimson roses, yellow snapdragon.
Losing track of time, of days, yesterday is today, and today is tomorrow,
Covid-19 still holds the winning cards, the biggest pile of chips, momentum
And mojo.
Mask, gloves, hand sanitizer, X marks the spot where you stand
Wait your turn, speak through Plexiglass.
There’s still meat on the rack, eggs in the dairy, apples in the bin,
Plenty of beer and booze, luck still holding.
This is our Banana Republic, love it or leave it.
The rat and the worm, the crow and the
Cockroach,
The morgue is bursting its seams,
and the furnace
Is booked solid.
The master stands on the veranda
Surveys his fields, glances at the sun peeking over the horizon,
Looks at the people he owns, coughs, spits, and says, quietly,
“Get to it. They’ll be no slacking today.”
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