Sunday, March 19, 2017

Meals on Wheels

My mother drove for them for, what?
Ten or twenty years? She thought
it was her duty and would sit
and talk to her clients
about the weather, their children,
how hard it is for older people
to get around nowadays.
She would cluck and laugh
at how narrow-minded
the old black lady seemed
to the old white lady from the suburbs
doing her Christian work.
And I would pretend to not be
somehow embarrassed by both
halves of the conversation
she retold. But she did it
and never complained once
about the work or the time
it took. Which is more
than I can say for myself,
the privileged son of a privileged society,
that — even as we speak —
is turning in on itself
only to choke on the excess
it refuses to share
with the world
it has decided
is its enemy.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Press Secretary

Read my lips.
Watch them move.
Words fall out of them.
Bitter, angry words.
Don't quote me on this
but someone's going to pay.
Any more questions? If not...
Not you. You. I've never
seen such a pack of wolves.
Believe me. You'll be sorry.
And that's all
I have to say.